Concerto Night
By Friday evening, Faris had convinced himself he was doing the sensible thing.
Two tickets existed. They had been paid for. A seat left empty was a waste–of money, of planning, of an evening that would otherwise be swallowed by the same routine of work, gym, dinner alone, sleep, repeat. Jiawen was free. He was free. They were both newly unpaired in a way that made companionship feel harmless.
A celebration of being single again.
That was what he told himself as he stood in front of his wardrobe with the suit bag unzipped, fingertips resting on the sleeve as if the fabric might be warm enough to absorb the restlessness under his skin.
On his bed, his notebook lay open. Habit. Even when the subject was not a project, he still tried to manage it like one.
- Pick up 6:30pm (Her block)
- Park: Esplanade / Concert Hall
- Show: 7:30pm
- Dinner: 9:45pm (Seabreeze Terrace)
- Send her home
No task had checkboxes.
No task had contingencies.
Yet he’d written them anyway, as if organising the night would keep it from becoming something else.
His phone buzzed.
A Teams notification.
Reza had sent a meme into the CIS Logistics channel: a picture of a drowning stick figure labelled “Client,” with another stick figure labelled “Implementation Team” holding a tiny float.
Under it, Reza wrote:
Reza: SkyFreight next week: accelerate go-live.
Ben replied with a crying emoji.
Priya responded with a skull.
Jiawen’s reply came a few seconds later.
Jiawen: Can accelerate but cannot defy physics, thanks.
Faris stared at the message.
The words themselves were nothing.
But he imagined her face as she typed it–eyebrows knit, mouth making that annoyed pout that always came with her dramatic frustration. He could almost hear her voice.
He felt the corner of his mouth lift.
Then he stopped.
He closed Teams.
He couldn’t afford to let amusement grow into softness.
Not when he was about to drive into an evening that looked, from the outside, dangerously like a date.
He picked up his phone and opened WhatsApp.
Faris: I’ll pick you up 6:30. Wear comfortable shoes if you can. There’s some walking.
He stared at the message for a second, then added:
Faris: (Formal but still walking.)
He hit send.
A reply came almost immediately.
Jiawen: COMFORTABLE SHOES + FORMAL?? You want me to wear slippers?
Faris exhaled through his nose.
Faris: Flats. Or bring a spare.
Jiawen: Wah uncle vibes again.
Faris’s jaw tightened, not with irritation–more with a reluctant warmth he didn’t want.
Faris: 6:30.
Jiawen: Yes sir.
He stared at the words.
Yes sir.
He could picture her grin.
He put the phone down, a little more carefully than necessary, then reached for his tie.
In her bedroom, Jiawen stood in front of the mirror with a dress held against her body like a question.
The room was small, the kind of HDB bedroom that had been rearranged a hundred times to make space for life. A study table crowded against one wall, stacked with notebooks and a company laptop. A fan on the floor pointed upward because the air-con in this room never worked quite right. The shelves above her bed held little fragments of her–two Polaroids from a Johor trip, a tiny plush bear someone had given her during internship, a jar of hairpins that looked like a nest of metal.
She had tried on three outfits already.
The first was too office–safe, boring, like she was going to a client meeting.
The second was too much–too sparkly, too “look at me,” like she was trying to prove something.
The third had been perfect, until she imagined walking into a concert hall beside Faris in it and her stomach had tightened in a way that didn’t feel like nerves.
Now she held the fourth: a simple formal dress in a deep, quiet colour that made her skin look warmer. The fabric wasn’t flashy. It didn’t demand attention.
But it was… grown.
Mei, her mother, knocked on the door without waiting for permission–because Asian mothers didn’t believe in closed doors as an absolute concept.
“You ready already or not?” her mother asked, stepping in.
Jiawen nearly dropped the dress. “Ma! Don’t come in like that!”
Mei looked her up and down. “You got boyfriend coming?”
Jiawen’s chest tightened. “No.”
Mei’s eyebrows rose. “Huh? Then why you so nervous?”
“I’m not nervous,” Jiawen said automatically.
Her mother’s eyes narrowed.
Jiawen’s face betrayed her.
Mei sighed dramatically, stepping closer. “Okay, tell me. Who pick you up?”
Jiawen hesitated.
Her mother’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t tell me you going out with coworker.”
Jiawen’s cheeks warmed. “It’s not like that.”
Mei folded her arms. “Then like what?”
Jiawen held the dress up again, partly as shield. “He’s my senior. Faris. We got tickets to orchestra. He had two tickets and no one to go with. I also free. So we just go.”
Mei stared at her.
Jiawen stared back.
Mei’s expression shifted into something unreadable.
Then she said, slowly, “Faris is Malay?”
Jiawen blinked. “Ya.”
Mei’s eyes flicked over Jiawen’s face like scanning for something unspoken. “He’s good man?”
Jiawen frowned. “He’s… nice. Very helpful. Serious about work. Not creepy.”
Mei hummed. “And your Junhao?”
The name landed heavy.
Jiawen’s hands tightened around the dress.
Mei noticed.
Her expression softened slightly.
“Oh,” Mei said quietly. “You really break already.”
Jiawen swallowed. “Ya.”
Mei didn’t ask why. She didn’t pry.
Instead, she stepped closer and took the dress from Jiawen’s hands, holding it up against her.
“This one nice,” she decided.
Jiawen blinked. “You approve?”
Mei snorted. “I approve of you going out, enjoy life. Don’t always work.”
Jiawen laughed weakly. “It’s not a date.”
Mei’s eyes flicked up. “Maybe not now.”
“Ma!”
Mei held up her hands. “Okay, okay. Not say anything.”
She pointed at Jiawen’s hair. “You do nicely. Not like office ponytail. Tonight you look beautiful.”
Jiawen’s throat tightened.
She looked away quickly. “Okay.”
Mei smiled, reached out, and patted Jiawen’s shoulder once.
Then she left the room, leaving behind the scent of familiar laundry detergent and a quiet that felt suddenly heavier.
Jiawen stared at herself in the mirror.
She wasn’t nervous.
She was… aware.
Aware that Faris would see her.
Aware that she would see him.
And that seeing was dangerous when you had just ended something and promised yourself you would not rush into another.
She exhaled slowly.
Then she started getting ready.
At 6:28pm, Faris’s car pulled up under the sheltered drop-off point outside Jiawen’s block.
The estate was lit by the soft orange glow of street lamps, and the air carried that familiar HDB evening mix–someone frying garlic, someone’s incense drifting from an open window, rain-slick concrete cooling after a day of sun.
Faris sat behind the wheel in his tailored suit, the collar suddenly feeling too tight.
The suit fit him well. He’d gotten it made two years ago after a promotion, mostly because his mother had insisted he needed “proper clothes” for events. He didn’t attend many events.
Tonight, the fabric felt like armour.
He checked his watch.
6:28.
He told himself he was early.
His phone buzzed.
Jiawen: I’m coming down.
Faris replied:
Faris: Take your time.
He put the phone down and stared at the void deck.
Two elderly men sat at a chess table, pieces clacking softly. A child ran past, shrieking with laughter, chased by a tired-looking father. A woman carried a plastic bag of groceries, moving with the resigned rhythm of someone who had done this every day for years.
Faris felt like an intruder in this domestic scene.
A car in a suit, waiting for a colleague.
He told himself again: not a date.
A celebration.
A sensible use of tickets.
The lift dinged.
Jiawen stepped out.
For one second, Faris’s brain failed to categorise what he was seeing.
He had only ever seen Jiawen in office outfits–streetstyle blouses, neat skirts, sneakers sometimes on casual Fridays, hair tied in practical ways. She always looked put-together, yes, but in a way that belonged to fluorescent lights.
Tonight, she belonged to a different kind of light.
The formal dress fell cleanly along her small frame, making her look delicate without looking childish. Her hair was styled in soft waves that framed her face. She wore simple earrings that caught the lamplight when she moved.
She looked… stunning.
Faris felt his breath catch.
He forced himself to inhale slowly.
Jiawen walked toward the car with careful steps, holding a small clutch in one hand and–inevitably–a tote bag in the other.
Faris watched her.
The tote bag made him want to laugh.
It also made him want to exhale, relieved.
It reminded him she was still Jiawen, even dressed like this.
She stopped by the passenger door.
Their eyes met through the window.
Jiawen froze.
Her face betrayed her own surprise at his suit.
Faris opened the driver’s door and stepped out.
The humid air hit him, and suddenly he was aware of how tall he was standing beside her. He could see the top of her head easily. He could see the careful way she held her shoulders–trying to look composed.
“Hi,” Jiawen said, voice quieter than usual.
Faris cleared his throat. “Hi.”
Jiawen’s eyes flicked down his suit, then back up.
“Wah,” she whispered. “You look… very corporate.”
Faris exhaled through his nose. “You also.”
Jiawen blinked.
A smile tugged at her lips.
Then her face betrayed her nerves, and she looked away quickly.
Faris walked around to the passenger side.
He opened the door.
Jiawen hesitated.
“Faris,” she protested, half laughing, “you don’t need to–”
“I know I don’t need to,” he said calmly. “I want to. Sit.”
Jiawen narrowed her eyes. “Uncle.”
Faris lifted an eyebrow.
Jiawen’s face betrayed her regret.
She muttered, “Sorry.”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “Get in.”
Jiawen slid into the seat carefully, smoothing her dress as she settled.
Faris leaned in slightly, careful not to crowd her, and reached for the seatbelt, holding it out.
Jiawen’s eyes widened.
“I can buckle myself!” she hissed.
Faris paused, then handed it to her like a peace offering.
“Okay,” he said, amused. “Independent.”
Jiawen buckled it with exaggerated force.
Faris shut the door gently, then walked around to the driver’s side.
When he got in, Jiawen was staring at him.
“What?” he asked.
Jiawen blinked. “Nothing.”
Her face betrayed her.
Faris sighed. “You’re thinking something.”
Jiawen hesitated, then said softly, “You really always do this for friends?”
Faris’s hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel.
He knew what she meant.
The pick-up.
The door.
The insistence on sending people home.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s just how I was raised.”
Jiawen stared at him.
Her expression softened.
“Okay,” she murmured.
Faris started the car.
As they pulled out of the carpark, he glanced at her.
Jiawen was staring out the window, fingers fidgeting with the strap of her tote bag.
Faris frowned slightly.
“You brought something?” he asked.
Jiawen looked at him, startled. “Oh. Yes.”
She lifted the tote bag slightly. “My flats. In case my feet die.”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “Good.”
Jiawen smiled, relieved.
Then she added, “Also umbrella. Singapore always rain.”
Faris glanced at the sky.
Clouds hung low.
Rain threatened.
He nodded. “Good.”
Jiawen laughed softly. “Wah, why you keep saying good.”
Faris shrugged. “Because it is.”
Jiawen stared at him.
Her face betrayed a small warmth.
Then she looked away again.
The drive into town was a gentle slide through the familiar Friday traffic.
Street lights blurred on wet roads. Buses hissed at stops. Motorcycles slipped between lanes like impatient thoughts.
Faris kept both hands on the steering wheel, posture steady.
Jiawen sat quietly for the first ten minutes.
It wasn’t awkward silence.
It was the kind that said both of them were adjusting to the fact that this was not the office.
No partitions.
No Teams calls.
No other colleagues to soften their proximity.
Just the car.
The hum of the air-con.
The soft instrumental music from the radio that Faris had left on by habit.
Jiawen shifted.
“So,” she said, voice tentative, “you always go orchestra?”
Faris glanced at her. “Not always.”
“Sometimes?”
“Sometimes.”
Jiawen frowned. “You very mysterious.”
Faris exhaled through his nose. “I’m not mysterious. I’m boring.”
Jiawen scoffed. “You are not boring.”
Faris’s chest tightened.
He kept his eyes on the road. “How you know? You only know office Faris.”
Jiawen hesitated.
Her face betrayed thoughtfulness.
“I think office Faris already very… you,” she said quietly.
Faris’s hands tightened on the wheel.
“That’s dangerous,” he murmured before he could stop himself.
Jiawen blinked. “Huh?”
Faris cleared his throat. “I mean… you can’t judge people by work. Work is… performance.”
Jiawen stared at him for a second.
Then she nodded slowly. “Okay.”
She didn’t tease him.
That made him uneasy.
It meant she had heard something in his voice.
To shift the weight, Jiawen said, “Then tonight, I can see non-work Faris?”
Faris glanced at her.
Her eyes were bright, curious.
He felt something in his chest soften.
“Maybe,” he said.
Jiawen smiled. “Good.”
Faris snorted. “Don’t copy my words.”
Jiawen grinned. “Because it is.”
Faris shook his head, amused.
They reached the city.
The Esplanade came into view like a ship of glass, its spiky façade catching the city lights. Faris turned into the carpark, the familiar spiral descent into concrete and fluorescent lighting.
He parked carefully, turned off the engine.
The sudden quiet felt intimate.
Jiawen reached for her tote bag.
Faris opened his door quickly.
When he walked around to the passenger side, Jiawen had already opened her door.
She paused when she saw him standing there.
Her eyebrows rose.
Faris held out his hand.
“Come,” he said.
Jiawen stared at his hand.
Then she muttered, “So extra.”
But she placed her small hand in his.
Her fingers were cool.
Faris felt the contact like a spark.
He tightened his grip slightly–not possessive, just steadying–and guided her out of the car.
Jiawen’s heels clicked on concrete.
She wobbled slightly.
Faris’s hand tightened.
Jiawen hissed, “I’m fine.”
Faris didn’t let go until her balance was solid.
They walked toward the lift.
Jiawen’s arm remained close to his, her clutch held tight.
Faris kept his pace matched to hers.
Outside, the evening air smelled of rain and river and city.
The walkway toward the concert hall was lit warmly, and other people moved in the same direction–couples, older patrons, small groups dressed in suits and dresses.
Jiawen looked around, eyes wide.
Her face betrayed awe.
Faris couldn’t help it.
He smiled.
“This is your first time?” he asked.
Jiawen nodded. “I never go orchestra before.”
Faris glanced at her. “You’re going to like it.”
Jiawen frowned suspiciously. “How you know?”
“Because you cry easily,” Faris said, deadpan.
Jiawen gasped. “I do not cry easily!”
Faris lifted an eyebrow.
Jiawen’s face betrayed her.
She spluttered, “I–only sometimes.”
Faris chuckled softly. “Then you’ll like it.”
Jiawen muttered, “You want me to cry is it.”
Faris glanced at her. “No. I just… think it means you feel things.”
The words slipped out, quieter than his teasing.
Jiawen froze.
Her face betrayed surprise.
Then she looked away, cheeks slightly pink.
Faris’s chest tightened.
He regretted saying it.
Not because it was untrue.
Because it was too honest.
Inside the concert hall, everything softened.
The lights were dimmer. The carpet absorbed sound. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and perfume and old paper programmes.
Faris collected the programmes at the entrance.
Jiawen took one and immediately started flipping through it.
“Eh,” she whispered, pointing. “So many names.”
Faris leaned close to show her. “Those are the pieces. The first half is orchestral. Second half is the play segment.”
Jiawen’s eyes widened. “Play also?”
Faris nodded. “Concerto and play. That’s why dress code.”
Jiawen stared at the stage through the open doors.
The orchestra was already settling, instruments catching light like quiet metal promises. The stage set for the play sat behind them–minimal, elegant, waiting.
Jiawen inhaled.
Faris watched her.
Her eyes were bright.
She looked young in that moment, in a way that made him suddenly aware of the six years between them.
He reminded himself: colleague.
Close colleague.
Nothing more.
They found their seats.
Row H.
Two seats together, printed numbers small and final.
Jiawen sat first, smoothing her dress. Faris sat beside her, careful to keep space between their arms.
The hall dimmed further.
The conductor walked onstage.
Applause rose like a wave.
And then the first notes began.
At first, Jiawen sat very still.
She watched the instruments like she was trying to understand a language she had never studied.
Faris didn’t watch the stage immediately.
He watched her.
Not openly.
Just in the small turns of his gaze.
When the violins swelled, Jiawen’s eyes widened.
When the cello line cut through with warmth, her lips parted.
When the percussion hit softly like a heartbeat, her shoulders relaxed.
Faris felt a strange satisfaction.
Not pride.
Not ownership.
Just the quiet joy of seeing someone experience something for the first time.
Halfway through the first piece, Jiawen leaned slightly toward him.
“Wah,” she whispered. “It’s… loud, but nice.”
Faris leaned closer, whispering back, “It’s not loud. It’s full.”
Jiawen frowned, then nodded slowly, as if filing the word away.
Full.
When the first half ended, applause erupted again.
The hall lights rose slightly for intermission.
Jiawen turned to Faris, eyes sparkling.
Her face betrayed excitement.
“I didn’t know music can feel like this,” she whispered.
Faris’s chest tightened.
He smiled. “Told you.”
Jiawen scoffed softly. “You always so confident.”
Faris shrugged. “Only when I’m right.”
Jiawen laughed.
Then she paused.
Her expression softened.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For bringing me.”
Faris stared at her for a second.
Then he nodded once. “Okay.”
Jiawen narrowed her eyes. “That’s your only response?”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “What you want me to say?”
Jiawen huffed, but her smile remained.
They stayed in their seats during intermission.
Jiawen flipped through the programme again, reading the story summary for the play.
“This one seems sad,” she whispered.
Faris nodded. “It is.”
Jiawen glanced at him. “You like sad things?”
Faris hesitated.
He didn’t know how to answer that without telling her something he didn’t want to reveal.
“I like… honest things,” he said finally.
Jiawen stared at him.
Her face betrayed thoughtfulness.
Then she nodded slowly, as if that made sense.
The second half began.
The play unfolded with minimal staging and maximum feeling.
A story about distance.
About two people in the same city living separate lives, connected by a thread of music they could never quite name.
The actors spoke in careful lines. The orchestra underlined their words with rising strings and aching chords.
Jiawen’s posture stiffened at certain moments.
Faris noticed the way her hand tightened around the programme.
At one point, when the actor on stage whispered something about choosing the wrong person because you were afraid of being alone, Jiawen’s breath caught.
Faris glanced at her.
Her eyes shimmered.
Not yet tears.
But close.
She blinked fast.
Her face betrayed effort–trying to hold herself together in public.
Faris’s chest tightened.
He reached into his inner suit pocket.
He always carried a handkerchief.
Not because he expected drama.
Because his mother had drilled it into him–be prepared, be proper, be someone people could rely on.
He pulled it out quietly, folded neatly, and offered it to Jiawen without a word.
Jiawen froze.
She stared at the handkerchief like it was a live thing.
Then she looked at him.
Her eyes were wet.
Her face betrayed embarrassment.
“I’m not–” she whispered.
Faris leaned closer, voice barely audible. “It’s okay.”
Jiawen hesitated.
Then she took it, careful, as if afraid she would ruin it.
She dabbed at the corner of her eye quickly.
Faris looked back at the stage.
He didn’t watch her cry.
He gave her privacy in the only way he could.
When the play reached its climax–a quiet confession that came too late–Jiawen’s shoulders shook once.
Faris didn’t turn.
He simply held his hands steady on his lap.
The music swelled.
The actors bowed.
The hall erupted into applause.
Jiawen clapped too, though her eyes were still damp.
Faris glanced at her.
She looked at him and tried to smile.
Her face betrayed her vulnerability.
“I promise I’ll return,” she whispered, holding the handkerchief as if it was a borrowed secret.
Faris nodded. “No rush.”
Jiawen blinked.
Something softened in her expression.
Then she nodded.
They stood with the crowd and filed out.
Outside the hall, the city felt louder again.
The air smelled like rain.
Jiawen held her tote bag close, handkerchief tucked inside her clutch like a precious object.
Faris walked beside her.
He could feel the shift in their atmosphere.
Not romantic.
Not yet.
But closer.
As if they had shared something without touching.
Dinner was at Seabreeze Terrace, a beachside restaurant along the East Coast where the tables faced the water and the lights were strung in warm lines above the outdoor seating.
Faris had booked it as part of the package months ago, back when he still believed Amani might choose him.
Now he drove there with Jiawen in the passenger seat, the city lights fading behind them, the road stretching along the coast.
The sky had cleared after the earlier threat of rain.
Clouds hung low, but the horizon was open.
The sea was dark, reflecting the last traces of sunset.
Jiawen rolled down her window slightly.
Warm air rushed in.
She inhaled like she’d been holding her breath all day.
“This is nice,” she murmured.
Faris glanced at her. “Yes.”
Jiawen leaned her head back against the seat, eyes half closed.
“You always plan like this?” she asked softly. “Concert, then dinner… very… complete.”
Faris’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.
He didn’t want to talk about his planning.
Planning had been his way of earning love.
He cleared his throat. “It’s just… easier. Less stress.”
Jiawen hummed. “You like control.”
Faris glanced at her. “You saying like it’s a bad thing.”
Jiawen smiled. “Not bad. Just… very you.”
The phrase made his chest tighten again.
Very you.
He kept his eyes on the road.
When they arrived, a host led them to an outdoor table near the railing.
The sea breeze was gentle, carrying salt and distant laughter. The restaurant lights cast warm circles on the tablecloth.
Jiawen sat down carefully, smoothing her dress again.
Faris pulled out her chair without thinking.
Jiawen glanced up.
Her face betrayed her exasperated affection.
“You really cannot stop,” she muttered.
Faris shrugged, sitting opposite her. “It’s habit.”
Jiawen rolled her eyes. “Okay, uncle.”
Faris pointed at her. “Don’t.”
Jiawen laughed.
Then she paused.
Her laughter softened.
She looked out at the sea.
The waves were dark and quiet.
Faris watched her.
The restaurant hummed with other people–couples leaning close, groups clinking glasses, waiters moving smoothly between tables.
In that hum, Faris felt a small fear.
What if Jiawen looked around and realised this looked like a date?
What if she became uncomfortable?
What if he was doing the same thing again–creating a couple-shaped space with someone who hadn’t asked for it?
He cleared his throat.
“Just to be clear,” he said, voice careful, “this isn’t… pressure. I booked it before. It’s just… dinner.”
Jiawen blinked.
Then she looked at him.
Her expression shifted–surprise, then understanding.
Then she smiled softly.
“I know,” she said. “Relax. I’m not scared.”
Faris lifted an eyebrow.
Jiawen’s face betrayed her.
She laughed and corrected herself quickly. “Okay, I’m a bit scared. But in a… nice way.”
Faris stared.
His chest tightened.
He didn’t know what to do with that sentence.
So he did the only thing he knew.
He shifted to something practical.
“What do you want to eat?” he asked, handing her the menu.
Jiawen took it, grateful for the anchor.
They ordered.
Fish.
Pasta.
A drink for her.
Water for him.
The food arrived slowly, giving them time to talk.
At first, it was light.
Jiawen complained about SkyFreight’s acceleration request.
Faris replied with dry humour.
Jiawen imitated the client again, making Faris laugh into his water.
When she saw him laugh, she looked pleased, then tried to hide it.
She failed.
Faris watched her.
In the warm restaurant light, her face looked softer. The dramatic expressions were still there, yes–but there was something else under them.
Something tired.
Something brave.
The conversation drifted.
From work.
To life.
To the awkward stage of adulthood where you were supposed to know who you were, but you still felt like you were improvising.
Jiawen poked at her food, then said quietly, “I didn’t know breaking up can feel like relief.”
Faris’s fingers stilled on his fork.
He looked up.
Jiawen’s eyes were on the sea, not on him.
Her face didn’t perform.
It was just… honest.
Faris swallowed.
“You don’t have to–”
“I know,” Jiawen cut in gently, still not looking at him. “You said before. Boundaries.”
Faris nodded.
Jiawen took a breath.
“It’s just… weird,” she said softly. “Because I thought… if you love someone, you should want to stay. And if you leave, it means you didn’t love enough.”
Faris’s throat tightened.
He stared at her.
Her words hit something in him that had been sore for months.
Jiawen continued, voice quiet. “But when I ended it, I realised… sometimes staying is the thing that makes you disappear. Like you keep bending until you don’t recognise yourself.”
Faris’s hands tightened around his fork.
He breathed slowly.
Then he said, carefully, “That’s not because you didn’t love enough. It’s because you loved yourself too.”
Jiawen blinked.
She finally looked at him.
Her eyes shimmered again.
Her face betrayed it.
Then she laughed softly, wiping at the corner of her eye with the napkin.
“Wah,” she muttered. “Why tonight got so many tears?”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “Because you cry easily.”
Jiawen gasped. “Excuse me. I am emotional.”
Faris nodded solemnly. “Okay. Emotional.”
Jiawen laughed.
The laughter lightened something.
Faris felt himself exhale.
He hadn’t realised how tightly he’d been holding himself.
Jiawen took a sip of her drink and said, suddenly, “So… you really okay with leaving Amani?”
Faris froze.
The name landed like a stone in warm water.
He stared at Jiawen.
Her expression was careful.
Not kaypoh.
Not teasing.
Just… curious.
Faris swallowed.
He thought of the lift.
The way Amani’s eyes had softened for someone else.
The way he had walked out without anger because anger would have meant he still believed he had a right.
“I’m not… happy,” he admitted quietly. “But I’m okay with it.”
Jiawen frowned. “How?”
Faris looked out at the sea.
The water moved in small waves, steady.
He spoke slowly.
“Because I promised myself I won’t stay somewhere I’m not chosen,” he said. “I already stayed too long. If I stay again, I’ll hate myself.”
Jiawen stared.
Her face betrayed something sharp–admiration, maybe, or sadness.
Then she nodded slowly.
“That’s… very you,” she said softly.
Faris exhaled.
The phrase again.
Very you.
It made him feel both seen and trapped.
Jiawen reached for her fork, then paused.
“You know,” she said lightly, trying to shift the heaviness, “if you were my boyfriend, I would never let you do no status.”
Faris’s hand froze.
The words were casual.
A joke.
But they landed in his chest like a direct hit.
He looked up.
Jiawen’s eyes widened as she realised what she’d said.
Her face betrayed panic.
“I mean–” she sputtered. “Not–like–”
Faris’s mouth twitched.
He felt a laugh rise.
Not mocking.
Just… relief.
He let it out quietly.
Jiawen stared, mortified.
“Why you laughing,” she whispered, voice small.
Faris shook his head, still smiling. “Because you said it like it’s obvious.”
Jiawen groaned, covering her face with one hand. “I want to die.”
Faris leaned back in his chair, amused. “Don’t die. We still have dessert.”
Jiawen peeked through her fingers, then made a face at him.
Faris’s smile softened.
He watched her.
In that moment, he felt something dangerous.
Not attraction.
Not yet.
But the awareness that Jiawen’s presence made him lighter.
And that lightness could become a habit.
Dessert arrived.
They ate slowly, talking about harmless things.
Jiawen told him stories about Malaysia–about the way her relatives still asked when she would get married like it was a scheduled appointment. About how moving to Singapore had made her feel independent and lonely at the same time.
Faris listened.
He didn’t interrupt.
He asked questions when necessary.
Not too many.
Just enough.
When Faris spoke about his own life, he kept it simple.
Four years in the company.
His family in Singapore.
His mother’s expectations.
His habit of taking care of people.
He didn’t mention how taking care of people had become a way of proving he deserved to be loved.
Jiawen watched him as he spoke.
Her eyes were attentive.
Her face didn’t perform.
It made him feel exposed.
When the dinner ended, Faris paid.
Jiawen immediately protested.
“No,” she said, pulling out her wallet. “I pay my share.”
Faris shook his head. “No.”
Jiawen narrowed her eyes. “Faris.”
Faris met her gaze calmly. “I booked it. It’s my responsibility.”
Jiawen frowned harder. “Then I transfer you.”
Faris sighed. “You can buy me lunch next time.”
Jiawen froze.
Next time.
The phrase slipped out before he could stop it.
He saw it land in her eyes.
Her face betrayed surprise.
Then she smiled softly.
“Okay,” she said.
Faris’s chest tightened.
They walked out of the restaurant.
The sea breeze was cooler now, and the sky had turned deep navy. The distant lights of ships blinked like patient stars.
Jiawen slipped her flats on, carrying her heels in the tote bag.
Faris watched her, amused.
“What?” Jiawen asked, catching his look.
Faris shrugged. “You came prepared.”
Jiawen grinned. “I told you. Singapore always rain, always walking.”
Faris chuckled.
As they walked toward the car, the air was quiet enough that their footsteps sounded louder.
Jiawen’s shoulder brushed his arm once, lightly.
Faris’s body registered it immediately.
He forced himself to relax.
They got into the car.
Faris drove, careful.
Jiawen looked out the window, quiet.
After a while, she said softly, “Tonight was nice.”
Faris glanced at her. “Yes.”
Jiawen turned toward him. “Thank you.”
Faris’s fingers tightened on the wheel.
He didn’t know how to accept gratitude without feeling like he had to earn it again.
So he said, simply, “Okay.”
Jiawen laughed softly. “You and your okay.”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “What else you want me to say?”
Jiawen tilted her head, eyes thoughtful.
“I don’t know,” she admitted softly. “Maybe… just be here.”
Faris’s chest tightened.
He kept his eyes on the road.
But his voice came out quieter.
“I am,” he said.
Jiawen stared at him for a second.
Her face betrayed something gentle.
Then she looked away, hugging her tote bag close.
The car moved through the night.
The city lights blurred.
And in the space between them, something new settled.
Not romance.
Not yet.
But a closeness that felt like the beginning of a question.
When Faris pulled up under Jiawen’s block again, the void deck was quieter than before.
The chess table was empty now.
Only the hum of distant traffic remained.
Faris parked and turned off the engine.
Silence filled the car.
Jiawen unbuckled her seatbelt slowly.
Then she hesitated.
She looked at him.
“Faris,” she said softly.
He turned toward her.
Jiawen’s fingers fidgeted with her clutch.
“I’ll return your handkerchief,” she said, voice quiet.
Faris nodded. “Okay.”
Jiawen smiled faintly.
Then she opened the door.
Faris stepped out quickly, walking around to her side.
Jiawen paused when she saw him.
“Why you always…” she began, half exasperated.
Faris held out his hand.
Jiawen stared at it.
Then she sighed dramatically, like she was surrendering to a habit bigger than both of them.
She placed her hand in his.
Faris guided her out carefully, steadying her on the uneven ground.
For a second, she didn’t let go.
Neither did he.
Then Jiawen released his hand, stepping back.
She looked up at him.
Her face betrayed a softness she didn’t try to hide.
“Good night,” she said.
Faris nodded once. “Good night.”
Jiawen turned and walked toward the lift.
Halfway, she glanced back.
Faris was still standing by the car.
Their eyes met.
Jiawen’s face betrayed a small smile.
Then she disappeared into the lift.
Faris stood alone under the sheltered walkway, the humid air wrapping around him.
He watched the lift doors close.
Then he exhaled slowly.
On the way home, his suit jacket lay folded on the passenger seat like a discarded role.
His hands remained steady on the wheel.
But his mind kept returning to a single image.
Jiawen, in the concert hall, eyes wet, holding his handkerchief like it was something worth keeping.
He had told himself it was just kindness.
Just courtesy.
Just habit.
But as he drove through the sleeping city, Faris felt the uncomfortable truth settle in his chest like a note held too long.
Somewhere between the first swell of strings and the last line of the play, he had stopped thinking about wasted tickets.
And started thinking about two seats.