Handkerchief
On Monday morning, the office pretended nothing had happened.
The CIS floor was the same grid of desks, the same glass meeting rooms, the same air-conditioning that made everyone carry sweaters like armour. Teams notifications arrived in the same relentless drip. The pantry smelled like lemon cleaner and instant coffee, and someone had already left a half-finished packet of biscuits open on the counter like a silent trap.
The world moved as if Friday night had been a dream.
As if the swell of strings and the warmth of restaurant lights had not existed.
As if Faris had not stood under Jiawen’s block, watching her disappear into a lift and feeling something inside him shift.
He arrived earlier than usual.
Not because he needed to.
Because being early meant the office was quiet enough that he didn’t have to manage his face.
He sat down at his desk, opened his laptop, and forced himself into work mode.
SkyFreight’s tracker stared back at him.
Go-live acceleration.
Risk log updates.
Client verification call.
Integration stability.
There was no column for handkerchief.
There was no checkbox for the way her fingers had trembled when she took it.
He breathed in slowly.
Work first.
He typed, fast and steady.
For the first hour, the world stayed manageable.
Then his phone buzzed.
Jiawen.
A WhatsApp message.
Jiawen: Morning. My face still puffy. Thanks ah.
Faris stared at the words.
Puffy.
He could picture her, still half-asleep, cheeks soft, eyes narrowing at the memory of herself crying in a concert hall.
He felt the corner of his mouth lift.
Then he stopped.
He typed back with more restraint than necessary.
Faris: Morning. Drink water. Sleep earlier.
A reply came instantly.
Jiawen: Uncle.
Faris exhaled through his nose.
He should have been annoyed.
Instead, warmth slipped through his chest like an unwanted leak.
He put the phone down.
Then, to his horror, he found himself touching his inner suit pocket.
Empty.
The absence was physical.
Not because he needed the handkerchief.
Because it had been a small symbol of control–something he carried, something he could offer.
Now it sat in someone else’s bag.
He shook his head once, sharply, as if he could reset his thoughts.
The lift dinged.
The office began to fill.
By nine-thirty, the CIS Logistics pod was alive with voices.
Ben arrived first, already complaining about a bug he’d dreamt about.
Priya marched in with her coffee, eyes scanning her calendar like she was preparing for battle.
Reza followed, loud as always, greeting everyone with unnecessary enthusiasm.
And then Jiawen arrived.
She stepped out of the lift with a cardigan draped over her arm and a takeaway cup in her hand. Her hair was tied in a half-up style today–neat, practical, but with a softness that made Faris’s eyes catch.
She stopped at her desk.
Put her bag down.
Then turned toward Faris.
“Morning,” she said.
Her voice was normal.
Her smile was normal.
But her eyes flickered briefly, as if checking whether he was the same man from Friday night or a different one.
Faris kept his own expression neutral.
“Morning,” he replied.
Jiawen hesitated.
Then she added, lightly, “You look like you never sleep.”
Faris lifted an eyebrow. “I sleep.”
Jiawen narrowed her eyes.
Her face betrayed her.
Faris’s mouth twitched.
Jiawen looked pleased by the twitch.
Then she remembered where they were.
Her smile faded into something more professional.
Faris watched the shift.
It made something in him tighten.
Because it meant she was thinking about boundaries too.
Good.
Necessary.
Also… disappointing.
He swallowed the thought.
Work first.
SkyFreight did not care about emotions.
The client verification call was at ten.
Faris briefed Jiawen at nine-forty-five, voice calm, pointing at the screen.
“We’ll confirm the timezone fix, validate the dashboard numbers, then propose the updated go-live checklist. You answer if they ask about documentation. Keep it short. Don’t overpromise.”
Jiawen nodded, pen poised.
“Okay,” she said.
Faris paused.
Her “okay” sounded different today.
Less teasing.
More steady.
He forced himself not to read into it.
The call began.
The client’s ops manager joined, voice crisp and suspicious.
Faris spoke with his meeting voice–sharp, structured.
Jiawen listened.
When asked about the documentation timeline, she answered cleanly, quoting what Faris had taught her: we can provide an initial draft by end of week, final after UAT sign-off. Updates, not promises.
Faris watched her.
She did well.
After the call ended, Reza whistled softly. “Wah, Jiawen. You sound like senior already.”
Jiawen grinned, then caught herself.
She glanced at Faris.
He nodded once.
“Good,” he said.
Jiawen’s cheeks warmed.
Her face betrayed it.
Then she turned back to her screen quickly, hiding behind work.
Faris stared at his own laptop, trying to ignore the warmth in his chest.
At lunchtime, the team went out as usual.
The food court was loud with office crowds.
They found their usual table.
Jiawen sat beside Priya, opposite Faris.
Reza launched into a story about how his friend had gotten rejected by a girl because he used too many emojis.
Ben laughed.
Priya rolled her eyes.
Jiawen made an exaggerated cringe face.
Faris’s mouth twitched.
Jiawen noticed.
Her face betrayed triumph.
Then she remembered the setting.
She forced her expression into neutrality.
Faris felt something tighten.
After a while, Priya turned toward Jiawen.
“So,” she said casually, “your weekend okay?”
Jiawen froze.
Faris’s fork paused mid-air.
The question was simple.
The answer was not.
Jiawen’s eyes flicked toward Faris.
Faris kept his face calm.
He took a bite of his food as if nothing mattered.
Jiawen swallowed.
“Weekend okay,” she said quickly. “I just… rested.”
Reza grinned. “Rest? You’re 23. You still can rest?”
Jiawen made a face. “Cannot meh.”
Ben snorted.
Priya nodded, satisfied.
The conversation moved on.
But the small moment lingered in Faris’s chest.
Because Jiawen had looked at him before answering.
Because she had chosen not to say anything.
Because she was protecting something.
Him.
Her.
Them.
Faris didn’t know what to do with that.
The afternoon passed in a blur of tasks.
Risk log updates.
Dashboard validation.
Internal alignment.
The client pushed again for accelerated go-live.
Priya grew more tense.
Ben’s code logs became a wall of numbers.
Reza complained loudly, then returned to his work anyway.
Jiawen stayed focused.
She didn’t ask as many questions now.
Not because she had stopped being curious.
Because she had grown.
Faris noticed.
He felt proud.
He also felt something else.
A quiet fear.
Because when someone grew, they didn’t need you as much.
And Faris had been taught, in ways he was still unpacking, that being needed was the closest thing to being loved.
At four-fifteen, Jiawen stood and walked toward his desk.
Faris looked up.
She held her clutch in one hand.
Her face was composed.
Too composed.
“Faris,” she said quietly.
“Yeah?”
Jiawen hesitated.
Then she opened her clutch.
Faris saw a corner of white fabric.
His chest tightened.
The handkerchief.
Jiawen pulled it out carefully.
It was folded neatly.
Too neatly.
She held it out toward him with both hands, like a formal offering.
“I said I’d return,” she said softly.
Faris stared.
His fingers didn’t move immediately.
The handkerchief looked innocent.
Just fabric.
Just a habit.
But the act of returning it felt like closing a door.
Jiawen watched him.
Her face betrayed nervousness.
Faris forced his hand to move.
He took the handkerchief from her fingers.
Their fingertips brushed.
It was brief.
But Faris felt it like a spark.
He folded the fabric once more, reflexively, as if control could be restored through neatness.
“Thanks,” he murmured.
Jiawen nodded quickly.
Then she hesitated again.
“There’s… something inside,” she said.
Faris blinked. “What?”
Jiawen’s cheeks warmed.
She looked away.
Her voice dropped. “I wrote… a note. Not like… weird note. Just… thank you.”
Faris’s chest tightened.
He unfolded the handkerchief slowly.
A small piece of paper slid out.
He held it between his fingers.
The handwriting was neat, rounded.
A little too careful.
As if she had rewritten it to make sure it didn’t reveal too much.
He read.
Thank you for catching me before I cried in public.
(Also, I didn’t know orchestra can make people feel so much. You were right.)
–Jiawen
Faris stared at the note.
The office around him blurred.
He could hear the distant click of keyboards.
The murmur of someone on a call.
The hum of air-conditioning.
But the note sat in his hand like a small, private warmth.
He looked up.
Jiawen was watching him.
Her face betrayed hope.
Not romantic hope.
Something smaller.
The hope of being understood.
Faris swallowed.
His throat felt tight.
He folded the note carefully, sliding it back into the handkerchief.
“Okay,” he said softly.
Jiawen blinked.
Her expression shifted–mild exasperation mixed with affection.
“That’s all you say?” she whispered.
Faris’s mouth twitched.
He leaned forward slightly, keeping his voice low so no one else would hear.
“Thank you,” he said, quieter. “For… the note.”
Jiawen’s cheeks warmed.
Her face betrayed relief.
She nodded quickly.
Then she stepped back.
“Okay,” she murmured.
Faris nodded. “Okay.”
Jiawen returned to her desk.
Faris sat frozen for a moment, handkerchief and note in his drawer like contraband.
He stared at his screen.
The tracker numbers blurred.
His mind kept returning to the words.
Catching me.
As if he had been something steady.
As if his kindness had mattered.
Faris exhaled slowly.
Work first.
He forced his hands to move.
At five-thirty, a Teams notification popped up.
HR Reminder: Workplace Conduct & Professional Boundaries
Faris’s stomach dropped.
He clicked.
It was a generic reminder–sent to everyone.
Nothing targeted.
Nothing personal.
But it arrived with unfortunate timing, like the office itself had sensed the shifting atmosphere.
Faris stared at the message, then closed it.
He told himself he was overthinking.
Then his phone buzzed.
A WhatsApp from Amani.
Amani: Can we talk? I didn’t mean to hurt you.
Faris stared.
His chest tightened.
He didn’t know what to do with this.
He didn’t know what he owed her.
He didn’t know what he owed himself.
He glanced sideways.
Jiawen was typing, focused, brows furrowed.
She looked tired.
She looked determined.
She looked… safe.
Faris swallowed.
He locked his phone.
Didn’t reply.
Not now.
Not at work.
Not while he was trying to rebuild his life with cleaner lines.
At six, Jiawen stood, stretching.
She glanced at Faris.
“You going off?” she asked.
Faris nodded. “Soon.”
Jiawen hesitated.
Then she said softly, “Thanks again for Friday.”
Faris’s chest tightened.
He nodded once. “Okay.”
Jiawen rolled her eyes gently. “You and your okay.”
Faris’s mouth twitched.
Jiawen smiled.
Then she turned to leave.
As she walked toward the lift, her phone buzzed.
Faris saw her glance down.
Her expression shifted.
Not dramatic.
Not comedic.
A shadow passing quickly over her face.
Then she tucked the phone away and continued walking.
Faris watched her disappear into the lift.
He didn’t know what message she had received.
He didn’t ask.
Boundaries.
Yet the instinct to protect rose in him anyway.
He stayed at his desk until the floor was quiet again.
Then he pulled the handkerchief out of his drawer.
He unfolded it carefully.
The note fell out into his palm.
Faris stared at it.
A simple sentence.
Yet it held warmth.
It held proof.
That his steadiness had been seen.
That his kindness had mattered.
He folded the handkerchief again, slower this time.
Then he slid the note back inside.
Not as a trophy.
Not as a promise.
Just as a reminder.
He tucked it into his inner pocket.
Not because he needed it.
Because the idea of carrying it felt like carrying something lighter than his own thoughts.
Outside, the city darkened into evening.
The office lights remained bright, indifferent.
Faris locked his laptop.
As he left the building, the turnstile flashed green.
He stepped through.
And for the first time in a long time, the green light felt like something more than access.
It felt like an opening.