Two Seats… Separate
The seat change happened on a Thursday.
Not with drama.
Not with an announcement.
Not with Priya standing at the front of the office and declaring, “By the way, your love life is now a seating arrangement.”
It happened the way corporate decisions always did–quietly, politely, and with an email that pretended it was just logistics.
Subject: Seating Update – CIS Logistics Pod
From: Facilities Support
CC: Stephanie Lim (HRBP), Priya Nair
Jiawen stared at her screen until her eyes went dry.
Seating update.
A polite phrase for: We need your bodies to look less close.
Faris had told her this might happen.
He had said, “It’s not punishment. It’s protection.”
Jiawen had nodded and told herself she was an adult.
Now, with the email open in front of her, she wanted to bite her laptop.
The new seat was highlighted in a tiny floorplan image.
Pod cluster B.
Same department.
Same vertical.
Different row.
Two clusters away.
Far enough that people couldn’t casually assume they were attached at the hip.
Close enough that Jiawen could still see Faris if she lifted her head and looked past two rows of monitors.
Like a cruel compromise.
Reza leaned over her partition, eyes bright.
“Eh, Jiawen,” he said. “Why you staring at screen like you want to murder someone?”
Jiawen blinked.
Her face betrayed outrage.
“Because I might,” she muttered.
Reza’s eyebrows shot up. “Wah. Today violent.”
Ben, behind his screen, snorted.
Priya looked up from her laptop.
She didn’t ask.
She simply said, briskly, “Facilities sent email?”
Jiawen froze.
“Ya,” she admitted.
Priya nodded once. “Okay. Don’t make it dramatic. You’ll move after lunch. I’ll help you shift your monitors.”
Jiawen stared.
Her chest tightened.
“You knew?” she whispered.
Priya’s mouth twitched. “HR told me yesterday. It’s standard. Not personal.”
Not personal.
Jiawen wanted to scream.
She swallowed.
“I feel like I’m being… relocated,” she muttered.
Reza gasped dramatically. “Wah, exile.”
Priya’s eyes snapped to him. “Reza.”
Reza shut up.
Jiawen exhaled.
Then she looked down at her screen again.
Faris hadn’t said anything yet.
He was at his desk, typing.
His posture looked normal.
But Jiawen could see tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders held slightly tighter.
He had read the email too.
He just hadn’t come over.
Because optics.
Because eyes.
Because being seen mattered.
Jiawen’s throat tightened.
She wanted to storm to his desk and say, I’m not a scandal.
Instead, she opened WhatsApp under the table and typed:
Jiawen: So… I got promoted to Pod Cluster B.
She hit send.
Her phone buzzed a few seconds later.
Faris: Okay.
Jiawen stared.
Her mouth tightened.
Then another message:
Faris: Lunch later.
Faris: We talk.
Jiawen exhaled.
Her chest loosened slightly.
Not abandoned.
Just… careful.
She typed back:
Jiawen: Okay.
Then she added:
Jiawen: Stop okay.
Faris replied:
Faris: Cannot.
Jiawen laughed silently into her sleeve.
The laughter eased the tightness in her chest.
Maybe this was how they would survive.
By making the unfairness smaller with humour.
Lunch was the usual chaos.
Food court lines.
Clattering trays.
Office chatter.
Reza tried to make a big deal out of the seat change.
“Jiawen moving away,” he announced dramatically. “Today we mourn.”
Priya kicked him under the table.
Reza yelped. “OW!”
Priya smiled sweetly. “Accident.”
Ben laughed.
Jiawen made a face.
Her face betrayed annoyance.
“I’m not dying,” she snapped.
Reza grinned. “But it feels like breakup.”
Jiawen glared. “You want to die?”
Reza held up his hands. “Okay, okay. I shut up.”
Faris sat across from Jiawen.
He ate quietly.
He didn’t look at her too much.
But his gaze flicked to her face occasionally.
Checking.
Jiawen tried to act normal.
Her chest tightened anyway.
At one point, Priya leaned toward Jiawen.
“It’s temporary,” Priya said softly. “Don’t spiral.”
Jiawen blinked.
Her throat tightened.
“How you know I’m spiralling?” she whispered.
Priya’s mouth twitched. “Your face is loud.”
Jiawen groaned. “Everyone always say that.”
Priya shrugged. “Because true.”
Jiawen sighed.
Then she looked across the table at Faris.
He was listening to Reza’s nonsense with a neutral face.
But Jiawen saw the small tightness at the corner of his mouth.
Like he wanted to say something.
Like he wanted to protect her.
Like he was forcing himself not to.
Her chest warmed and hurt at the same time.
Lunch ended.
The moving began.
Facilities had sent a trolley.
A ridiculous little trolley that looked like it belonged in a supermarket, now repurposed to carry a person’s work life.
Priya rolled it over with brisk efficiency.
“Okay,” she said, “disconnect everything. Don’t panic. We’ll set up again.”
Reza popped up behind Jiawen. “Wah, moving house.”
Jiawen glared. “Shut up.”
Reza grinned. “I’m just here for moral support.”
Ben, surprisingly, stood too.
“I help,” he mumbled.
Jiawen blinked at him. “You? Help?”
Ben shrugged awkwardly. “You’re… good teammate. Don’t make it emotional.”
Jiawen laughed weakly.
Priya rolled her eyes. “Okay, sentimental later. Unplug.”
Jiawen unplugged her docking station.
Her keyboard.
Her mouse.
Her charger.
Her water bottle.
Her cardigan on the chair.
Her little pen holder.
Her notes.
It was only objects.
Yet each object lifted felt like a small goodbye.
Faris stayed seated at his desk, typing.
He didn’t come over.
Not because he didn’t care.
Because he cared too much.
Jiawen felt the sting anyway.
She told herself not to.
She told herself she was being childish.
Then, as she lifted her monitor carefully, she felt the cable snag.
She yelped softly.
The monitor tilted.
Ben reached out quickly and steadied it.
“Careful,” he muttered.
Jiawen’s face betrayed embarrassment.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
Ben shook his head. “Don’t sorry. Just… hold properly.”
Priya nodded approvingly. “Okay. Move.”
They wheeled the trolley down the aisle.
Jiawen walked beside it, hands clasped like she was escorting a coffin.
Reza followed, still dramatic.
“Today we escort Jiawen to her new home,” he announced.
Priya glared. “Reza.”
Reza shut up.
They reached Pod cluster B.
Jiawen’s new desk was identical.
Same monitor.
Same docking station.
Same chair too big for her.
Different view.
Different neighbours.
A new pod of faces she knew only vaguely.
They looked up as she arrived.
One of them–a woman with sharp eyeliner and a tidy bun–smiled.
“Hi Jiawen,” she said. “I’m Sharon from banking, but I sit here sometimes. Welcome.”
Jiawen blinked.
Sharon.
The same Sharon who had messaged her about Junhao.
Jiawen forced a smile. “Hi.”
Sharon’s eyes flicked over her face, subtle.
Then she leaned in slightly and whispered, “Don’t worry. Everyone moves around. Office is like Tetris.”
Jiawen laughed weakly.
Her face betrayed gratitude.
Priya began setting up Jiawen’s monitor with brisk efficiency.
Ben plugged in cables.
Reza hovered.
“Wah,” Jiawen muttered. “So many people helping. Like wedding.”
Priya’s head snapped up. “Don’t say wedding.”
Reza’s eyes widened. “WEDDING??”
Jiawen slapped Reza’s arm. “Shut up lah!”
Reza laughed. “Okay, okay!”
Sharon giggled quietly.
Jiawen’s cheeks burned.
Her face betrayed it.
Priya sighed. “Okay, done. Log in. Test.”
Jiawen sat down.
Her feet barely touched the floor.
She felt absurdly small.
Priya patted her desk once. “You’re fine. It’s just two rows away.”
Jiawen stared.
“Still,” she whispered.
Priya’s eyes softened slightly.
Then she straightened.
“Okay. Back to work. Don’t let HR win.”
And with that, Priya walked away.
Ben mumbled, “Text if need help,” then followed.
Reza waved dramatically. “Bye Jiawen. Don’t forget us.”
Jiawen rolled her eyes. “Go away.”
Reza laughed and left.
Suddenly, Jiawen was alone.
Not truly alone.
She was surrounded by colleagues.
But alone in the way that mattered.
Because when she looked up, her old seat was visible in the distance.
Faris sat there.
Tall.
Steady.
Focused.
He didn’t look over.
Jiawen’s chest tightened.
She felt the sting again.
Then her phone buzzed.
Faris.
Faris: You settled?
Jiawen exhaled.
Her chest loosened slightly.
She typed:
Jiawen: Yes.
Jiawen: Feels like I got divorced.
A moment later:
Faris: Don’t be dramatic.
Jiawen stared.
Then she laughed.
Because he sounded like Priya.
She typed:
Jiawen: I’m not dramatic.
A pause.
Then:
Faris: You are.
Jiawen gasped silently, offended.
She typed:
Jiawen: Don’t read me.
His reply came:
Faris: Your face is loud.
Jiawen froze.
Then she buried her face in her hands.
He was copying Priya now.
Or maybe Priya had simply been right.
Jiawen’s cheeks warmed.
Her face betrayed her smile.
She looked up again.
Faris still hadn’t looked over.
But his message had.
It was a small thread.
Invisible to everyone else.
Holding her steady.
The afternoon was strange.
The new pod had different rhythms.
Different jokes.
Different ways of working.
Jiawen kept her head down, focusing on SkyFreight tasks.
Training materials.
SOP updates.
Post go-live questions.
Every now and then, she would glance up.
Faris remained at his old desk.
Once, their eyes met across the rows.
It was brief.
Like a spark.
Faris looked away immediately.
Jiawen’s stomach tightened.
Was he avoiding her?
Or was he being careful?
The difference mattered.
At 3:17pm, Jiawen’s phone buzzed.
Faris.
Faris: Pantry. 3:20.
Jiawen’s heart jumped.
Pantry.
A micro-date.
But also safe.
Neutral.
Just coffee.
She typed back:
Jiawen: Okay.
Then she added:
Jiawen: Not friend.
There was no reply.
She panicked.
Then she realised he might be in a meeting.
She inhaled.
At 3:20pm, Jiawen walked toward the pantry.
Her steps felt too loud.
The office aisle felt too exposed.
As she passed her old pod, she could feel eyes.
Not malicious.
Just curious.
She entered the pantry.
Faris was there, standing by the kettle.
He turned when he saw her.
His expression softened.
Then, automatically, he held the pantry door open for her.
Jiawen stopped.
She stared at him.
Faris blinked, then realised.
The door deal.
He stepped aside with a faintly sheepish look.
Jiawen’s face betrayed smugness.
She stepped through dramatically, as if to punish him.
Faris’s mouth twitched.
He poured water into two mugs.
One for him.
One for her.
Jiawen blinked.
“You assume I want hot water?” she asked.
Faris lifted an eyebrow. “You like warm drinks when you’re stressed.”
Jiawen froze.
Her chest tightened.
He knew.
Too well.
She tried to mask it with humour.
“Wah, so you studied me?” she whispered.
Faris’s mouth twitched. “Mentoring.”
Jiawen rolled her eyes.
He slid the mug toward her.
Jiawen wrapped her hands around it.
Warmth seeped into her palms.
For a moment, neither spoke.
The pantry window showed the city bright and indifferent.
Jiawen swallowed.
“I feel weird,” she admitted softly.
Faris nodded slowly. “I know.”
Jiawen blinked. “How you know?”
Faris’s eyes softened.
“Because you keep looking over,” he said quietly.
Jiawen’s cheeks warmed.
Her face betrayed it.
She muttered, “I don’t.”
Faris lifted an eyebrow.
Jiawen groaned. “Okay, I do.”
Faris exhaled slowly.
“I also,” he admitted.
Jiawen’s chest tightened.
She looked at him.
Faris’s expression was calm.
But his eyes held something gentle.
Then he said, quietly, “This is HR’s idea of protection. But it doesn’t change what we are.”
Jiawen’s throat tightened.
“Sometimes it feels like it does,” she whispered.
Faris’s jaw tightened.
He leaned slightly closer, voice low.
“It doesn’t,” he said.
Jiawen stared.
Her eyes shimmered.
Her face betrayed it.
She blinked fast.
Then she laughed softly, embarrassed.
“Wah, why I so emotional. It’s just a seat.”
Faris’s mouth twitched.
“It’s not just a seat,” he said quietly. “It’s… comfort. Routine. Safety.”
Jiawen’s chest tightened.
She nodded.
Faris continued, voice gentle, “We make new routine.”
Jiawen frowned slightly. “Like what?”
Faris glanced at her mug.
“3:20 pantry,” he said.
Jiawen blinked.
Then her mouth twitched.
She smiled.
Soft.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Faris nodded. “Okay.”
Jiawen rolled her eyes gently. “Stop okay.”
Faris’s eyes crinkled slightly. “Cannot.”
Jiawen laughed.
The laughter eased the tightness.
Then she remembered.
“What about lunch?” she asked.
Faris’s mouth twitched. “Lunch protocol.”
Jiawen groaned. “Don’t remind.”
Faris’s eyes softened.
“We can still eat with group,” he said. “And sometimes… we walk five minutes after lunch. Outside. Like friends.”
Jiawen narrowed her eyes. “Don’t say friends.”
Faris blinked.
Then his mouth softened.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Not friends.”
Jiawen’s chest warmed.
She nodded.
For a second, her fingers twitched as if she wanted to reach out and touch his hand.
She didn’t.
Not in pantry.
Not in office.
She took a sip of warm water instead.
It tasted like nothing.
Yet it soothed.
Faris checked his phone.
“Back,” he said softly. “Ben might need update.”
Jiawen nodded.
They left the pantry.
This time, Jiawen grabbed the door first.
Held it open for Faris.
Faris paused.
His eyes softened.
He stepped through.
“You’re very proud,” he murmured.
Jiawen’s face betrayed smugness. “Yes.”
Faris shook his head, amused.
That evening, when Jiawen sat at her new desk, she felt less like she was being exiled and more like she was being tested.
A test of whether closeness depended on proximity.
A test of whether Faris would disappear into caution.
A test of whether she could stand on her own without feeling alone.
At 6:48pm, Jiawen’s phone buzzed.
Faris.
Faris: Going off soon?
Jiawen typed:
Jiawen: Yes.
Jiawen: You?
A pause.
Then:
Faris: Later.
Faris: I’ll text when I leave.
Jiawen’s chest loosened.
A thread.
Not visible.
Still there.
She packed her bag.
As she walked toward the lift, she glanced back.
Two rows away, Faris looked up.
Their eyes met across the sea of monitors.
Faris didn’t look away this time.
He held her gaze for a fraction longer.
Just enough.
A silent message.
Still you.
Jiawen smiled.
Small.
Brave.
Then she stepped into the lift.
That night, in her bedroom, Jiawen found herself reaching for her phone instinctively.
She typed:
Jiawen: I survived Pod Cluster B.
His reply came a minute later.
Faris: Good.
Jiawen rolled her eyes.
Then she smiled into her pillow.
Because yes–two seats had become separate.
But the space between them was not empty.
It was filled with choices.
Micro-routines.
Warm mugs.
Door deals.
And a love that was learning to exist even when the office tried to rearrange it.