Epilogue 2 — Two Seats at the Aisle
The first time Jiawen said the word Islam out loud in a sentence that began with I want…, it didn’t sound like a vow.
It sounded like a question she had been carrying quietly for months.
They were in Faris’ car, parked under a block’s sheltered drop-off because Singapore liked to pretend weather could be managed with enough concrete. The rain had started and stopped twice already, leaving the air heavy and clean at the same time. Wind chimes from someone’s corridor tinkled faintly, out of sync.
Faris sat in the driver’s seat with both hands on the steering wheel like he was trying to hold something steady.
Jiawen sat beside him with her legs tucked slightly toward herself, phone in her lap, ring catching stray light.
They’d just left another session of counselling–pre-marriage counselling, Faris called it, with the calm seriousness he used for client governance. The counsellor had been kind, practical, the sort of person who refused to let either of them hide behind jokes or logic.
“Your relationship is strong,” she had said. “Now it needs structure that doesn’t erase either of you.”
Structure.
The word always showed up.
Faris had nodded.
Jiawen had nodded too.
Then, on the drive home, silence had expanded between them like a quiet room.
Jiawen stared at the rain trails on the windshield.
Then she spoke.
“I want to learn Islam properly,” she said.
Faris didn’t move.
His fingers tightened slightly on the wheel.
Jiawen could see it–his instinct to respond quickly, to anchor the moment with an answer.
He didn’t.
He waited.
As if he knew this was one of those moments you didn’t rush.
Jiawen turned her head toward him.
“I mean it,” she added, softer. “Not because I have to. Not because your mother will only accept me if I do. Not because… any auntie asked stupid questions.”
Her mouth tightened at the memory.
Faris still didn’t speak.
He looked at her.
His gaze wasn’t excited.
It wasn’t triumphant.
It was careful.
Like he was holding a fragile thing and refusing to squeeze.
Jiawen exhaled.
“I want to understand,” she said. “I want to know what you believe the way you know your own blood. I want to know what you’re fasting for, what you’re praying toward. I want to know the parts of you that aren’t office, aren’t ‘proper,’ aren’t… just being steady. I want to know the why.”
Her voice shook slightly.
“And,” she admitted, quieter, “I don’t want to stand outside your life forever. I don’t want to be a visitor in your home.”
Faris’s throat moved.
He inhaled slowly.
Then, very softly, he asked, “Are you choosing this for you?”
Jiawen’s eyes glistened.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Faris nodded once.
No speeches.
No grand reaction.
Just a nod that carried respect.
“Okay,” he said.
Jiawen blinked.
That word.
Always.
“Okay?” she repeated.
Faris’s mouth twitched faintly.
“I’m not going to celebrate,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to pressure. I’m not going to… treat this like a win.”
Jiawen’s lips trembled into a small smile.
Faris looked at her.
“If you learn and you decide not to,” he continued, voice steady, “I will still respect you. We will still be honest. We will still decide our future properly. But I won’t… push you into something that’s not real.”
Jiawen stared at him.
Her throat tightened.
Then she let out a breath that sounded like relief.
“Handsome HR,” she whispered.
Faris sighed, long suffering.
“Stop,” he muttered.
Jiawen laughed softly, then reached out and covered his hand on the steering wheel for half a second.
A brief touch.
A quiet thank you.
Door deal.
Meet halfway.
Faris turned his palm slightly to hold her fingers once.
Then he released, because they were still in a carpark and the world still existed.
“Let’s do it properly,” Jiawen said, voice steadier now.
Faris nodded.
“Properly,” he echoed.
Learning Islam, Jiawen discovered, was not a montage.
It wasn’t one afternoon of sitting in a class and suddenly becoming wise.
It was mornings that began earlier than she liked.
It was evenings spent reading quietly in Faris’ living room while he sat a few feet away, pretending to watch TV but actually watching her breathe through new ideas.
It was questions that felt simple until you asked them out loud.
Why do we pray five times?
What does it mean to surrender?
Is faith supposed to feel like certainty or like effort?
Sometimes she asked Faris.
Sometimes she didn’t.
Because some questions felt too personal to say until she trusted her own voice.
Faris never forced.
He answered when she asked.
He stayed quiet when she didn’t.
And the more he stayed quiet, the more Jiawen realised she wasn’t being dragged.
She was walking.
One step.
Then another.
At the mosque, the air was always cooler.
Not just because of fans.
Because there was a stillness in the space that made Jiawen’s mind soften without permission. Shoes lined up near the entrance. People moved with a particular gentleness, as if the building demanded respect from their bodies.
Jiawen came in modest clothes now without thinking too hard. Long sleeves. Loose fabric. A scarf that she tied with clumsy fingers the first few times until it became muscle memory.
The scarf felt strange at first.
Not as an oppression.
As a new sensation.
Like wearing a piece of intention.
Sometimes she caught herself in the mirror in the washroom and wondered if she was pretending.
Then she would remember Penang aunties.
The way they had asked about conversion like it was a transaction.
And she would feel a quiet anger.
No.
If she did this, it would not be because other people demanded it.
It would be because she chose it.
The ustazah in her classes was gentle and firm, the kind of teacher who didn’t tolerate performance.
“You can learn,” she told Jiawen, “without rushing yourself. But you must be honest with your intention. Islam is not a costume.”
Jiawen had nodded, throat tight.
“I don’t want costume,” she said.
The ustazah had smiled softly.
“Good,” she replied.
After class, Faris waited outside, leaning against a pillar with his phone in hand.
He always looked slightly out of place–too formal for a mosque corridor, too corporate for a place that didn’t care about title.
When Jiawen stepped out, he glanced up.
“How was it?” he asked softly.
Jiawen exhaled.
“Hard,” she admitted.
Faris’s jaw tightened slightly.
Jiawen continued, quick, “Not hard like unpleasant. Hard like… it’s real. It’s not just ‘learn and tick box’. It’s… reshaping.”
Faris nodded.
Jiawen stared at him.
“You’re not going to say ‘properly’?” she teased weakly.
Faris’s mouth twitched.
“You’re doing it properly,” he said.
Jiawen rolled her eyes.
But her smile softened.
Then she asked, quietly, “Are you proud?”
Faris froze.
It was the kind of question that could trap a man like him.
If he said yes too quickly, it sounded like pressure.
If he said no, it sounded like indifference.
Faris exhaled slowly.
“I’m… grateful,” he said softly. “That you’re taking yourself seriously.”
Jiawen’s eyes warmed.
She nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
Her parents came to Singapore again two months later.
Not for crisis.
For certainty.
Jiawen’s mother arrived carrying a trolley bag that looked too small to contain the number of things she had packed.
Her father walked beside her with calm eyes.
When they met Jiawen at the arrival hall, her mother’s first action was to grab Jiawen’s face between both hands.
“Aiyo,” her mother declared, “you look thinner again. You eating or not?”
Jiawen groaned. “Ma. I eat.”
Her mother narrowed her eyes. “Ring make you thin ah?”
Jiawen choked.
Faris, standing beside them, cleared his throat and looked away, ears warming.
Her father greeted Faris with a firm handshake.
“Thank you,” Jiawen’s father said quietly.
Faris blinked. “Uncle–”
Her father’s gaze held his.
“For being steady,” he clarified. “Still.”
Faris nodded slowly.
“Yes, Uncle,” he said.
Her father nodded.
Jiawen watched the exchange and felt something in her chest settle.
This wasn’t just approval.
This was entrustment.
Her parents had seen Faris.
Not in highlights.
In crisis.
In patience.
In how he held the line without making her smaller.
That night, they sat in Faris’ living room again–tea, fruit, the universal language of family meetings.
Faris’ mother was there, composed.
Faris’ father quieter.
Farah hovering like she was hosting a talk show.
Jiawen sat between worlds.
Her ring glinted.
Her scarf sat neatly on her head.
Not because she was performing.
Because it had become part of her learning.
Her mother stared at the scarf.
Not with anger.
With tenderness.
“You like?” her mother asked softly.
Jiawen blinked.
She hadn’t expected the question to be so gentle.
“Yes,” Jiawen admitted. “It feels… calm.”
Her mother nodded slowly.
Then she reached into her bag and pulled out something wrapped in tissue.
A scarf.
Light fabric, pale, with a small pattern that reminded Jiawen of Penang skies.
Her mother held it out.
“From Penang,” she said. “If you want to wear, wear this. If you don’t want, keep. But this… is still your mother’s.”
Jiawen’s throat tightened.
“Ma,” she whispered.
Her mother’s eyes glistened.
“Don’t cry,” her mother scolded immediately. “Make me cry then how?”
Jiawen laughed weakly.
Faris watched, silent.
His mother’s gaze softened slightly.
Farah sniffed dramatically.
“Wah,” Farah murmured. “So emotional.”
Faris shot her a look.
Farah mouthed, Sorry.
Jiawen’s father spoke then, calm.
“Our daughter,” he said, “she chooses.”
The sentence was simple.
But the weight behind it made the room still.
Jiawen’s father looked at Faris.
“And you,” he continued, “you respect. You don’t force.”
Faris nodded, throat tight.
“Yes, Uncle,” he said.
Her father’s gaze held his.
“Then we support,” he said.
Jiawen’s breath caught.
Her mother nodded, wiping her eyes quickly as if angry at them.
“We support,” her mother echoed.
Then her father turned to Faris’ mother.
“We are Buddhist,” Jiawen’s father said calmly. “But we don’t fight faith. If Jiawen wants Islam, we let her. We only ask–don’t isolate her from us.”
Faris’ mother’s jaw tightened slightly.
Not displeasure.
Consideration.
Then she nodded.
“We won’t,” Faris’ mother said quietly.
The words landed like a bridge being laid.
Faris’ father cleared his throat.
“Family is family,” he said softly. “We can visit. We can talk.”
Jiawen’s father nodded.
Farah leaned forward. “We can eat,” she added brightly.
Jiawen’s mother laughed through tears. “Yes. Eat is important.”
Jiawen groaned. “Why everyone in my life is food.”
The room softened.
And in that softness, Jiawen realised she wasn’t losing her parents.
She wasn’t being pulled away.
Her parents were walking beside her.
Entrusting her.
And entrusting Faris.
That night, when everyone went home, Jiawen sat on Faris’ sofa with the Penang scarf in her lap.
Faris sat beside her.
Not touching.
Waiting.
She looked at him.
“My parents…” she whispered.
Faris nodded.
“They really support,” Jiawen said, voice shaking slightly.
Faris’s throat moved.
“They do,” he replied softly.
Jiawen blinked hard.
Then she laughed weakly.
“I thought my father will do drama,” she murmured. “Like threaten you.”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “He threatened me silently.”
Jiawen laughed.
Then her expression softened.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Faris blinked. “For what?”
“For being the kind of man my parents can entrust me to,” Jiawen said.
Faris’s chest tightened.
He didn’t answer with words.
He reached into his pocket.
The handkerchief.
Jiawen groaned softly. “Eh.”
Faris held it out.
Jiawen took it, pressed it to her eyes, laughing and crying at the same time.
“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered.
Faris’s mouth twitched.
“Proper,” he murmured.
Jiawen rolled her eyes through tears.
But her smile was real.
The day Jiawen said the Shahada, she didn’t do it in a crowd.
There was no dramatic soundtrack.
No applause.
Just a room that smelled faintly of paper and clean carpet, a small table with documents, and an ustaz who spoke gently like he had seen this moment a hundred times and still treated it like it mattered.
Faris sat a few feet away.
He didn’t sit beside her.
He didn’t touch her.
He looked like a man trying very hard not to become the centre of her choice.
Jiawen’s mother sat on the other side, holding Jiawen’s handbag like it was an anchor.
Her father sat beside her mother, posture straight, face calm.
Farah was also there–because Farah had insisted on “support,” which in Farah language meant “I will cry and make it about me.”
Faris’ mother hadn’t come.
Not because she didn’t support.
Because Jiawen and Faris had decided this moment should be Jiawen’s.
Not a family performance.
Door deal.
Jiawen led.
Faris held.
The ustaz asked Jiawen gently, “Are you doing this of your own will?”
Jiawen’s throat tightened.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Do you understand the meaning?”
Jiawen inhaled.
“I’m learning,” she said honestly. “But I understand enough to choose.”
The ustaz nodded.
Then he guided her.
Jiawen repeated the words slowly, carefully.
Her voice didn’t shake.
Not because she wasn’t emotional.
Because she was steady.
When she finished, her mother’s breath broke.
Her mother covered her mouth, eyes shining.
Jiawen turned to her parents.
Her mother reached out and touched Jiawen’s cheek.
“Okay,” her mother whispered.
Her father nodded.
“Okay,” he echoed.
Jiawen’s eyes filled.
She laughed softly, almost disbelieving.
Faris didn’t move.
He didn’t stand.
He didn’t rush to claim anything.
He just looked at her.
His eyes were wet.
And the way he looked at her didn’t feel like I got what I wanted.
It felt like I see you.
After the formalities, as they walked out, Jiawen’s mother handed her the Penang scarf.
“Wear,” her mother said softly.
Jiawen blinked. “Ma–”
Her mother smiled through tears. “Still my daughter.”
Jiawen’s throat tightened.
She nodded.
She wore it.
The scarf smelled faintly of home.
Penang.
Detergent.
Love.
Faris watched.
He didn’t say anything.
He just exhaled slowly.
As if the weight in his chest had finally found a place to rest.
The wedding was the cleanest kind.
Not minimal.
Not flashy.
Clean, like a room you had prepared carefully so no one felt erased.
The nikah happened in a mosque.
Not a giant spectacle.
But enough guests that the room hummed with quiet energy.
Family.
Friends.
ABIX-adjacent work friends who had become their chosen community.
Colleagues who looked too excited for a religious ceremony.
Reza, who had promised Faris he would behave and looked like he was vibrating with unspent commentary.
The mosque air was cool.
The carpet soft.
The light filtered through windows in a way that made everything look slightly kinder.
Jiawen sat in the women’s section, hands folded neatly in her lap.
Her dress was modest and elegant, fabric draping softly, her scarf pinned carefully.
On her finger, the ring.
Still there.
Still real.
Her mother sat beside her, fussing with the edge of Jiawen’s veil like she was trying to find something to do so she wouldn’t cry.
Her father sat in the row behind, posture straight, eyes calm.
He looked like he was guarding his own emotions.
Farah hovered near Jiawen, whispering in excitement.
“Wah,” Farah said, eyes shining, “you look like princess. But like… respectful princess.”
Jiawen stared. “That’s the weirdest compliment.”
Farah grinned. “It’s true.”
Jiawen’s mother sniffed. “Don’t make her laugh, later makeup.”
Jiawen rolled her eyes. “Ma, my makeup waterproof.”
Her mother gasped. “Wah, you so prepared.”
Jiawen’s mouth twitched.
Prepared.
That word again.
Across the mosque, Faris sat with the men.
He looked… calm.
But Jiawen could see his hands.
They were clasped together.
Tight.
The man who could handle HR.
The man who could handle steering committees.
The man who had proposed in front of witnesses.
Now nervous.
Jiawen’s chest warmed.
It made him human.
The wali and the officiant spoke.
The words of the nikah carried through the room.
Clear.
Measured.
Promises that were not poetic.
Promises that were legal and spiritual and real.
When Faris recited his acceptance, his voice was steady.
Jiawen felt her throat tighten.
She watched him.
He didn’t look around.
He didn’t perform.
He looked forward.
Focused.
Proper.
When it was done, a soft murmur rose.
Congratulations.
Prayers.
Smiles.
Jiawen’s mother’s hand tightened around Jiawen’s.
Her father exhaled.
Farah sniffed loudly and wiped her eyes dramatically.
“I’m not crying,” Farah declared.
Jiawen stared. “You are crying.”
Farah sniffed harder. “Okay lah.”
Jiawen laughed softly.
Then the officiant gestured.
“The couple,” he said.
And Jiawen stood.
Her legs felt slightly weak.
Not fear.
Emotion.
She walked slowly toward the designated area.
Faris stood too.
Their eyes met.
The mosque seemed to quiet around them.
Not because everyone stopped breathing.
Because Jiawen’s attention narrowed.
Faris’s gaze was soft.
And when he smiled–small, restrained–it felt like the sun in a room that had been cool for too long.
They sat side by side for the blessing.
Two seats.
Together.
Not assigned by chance.
Reserved by choice.
The handkerchief was in Faris’ pocket.
Of course it was.
Jiawen knew because she saw the slight bulge and almost laughed.
During the prayers, her tears slipped out quietly anyway.
Not sobbing.
Just the silent overflow of a heart that had been holding too many things.
Faris didn’t look at her too much.
But when the moment allowed, he slipped the handkerchief into her palm.
Under the table.
Not to hide her.
To catch her.
Jiawen pressed it to her cheek quickly.
Her ring flashed.
Her scarf sat steady.
Her mother’s eyes shone.
Her father’s gaze softened.
No one looked like they thought she was being taken.
They looked like they had witnessed her choosing.
After the mosque, there was a small reception.
Food.
Always food.
Halal, carefully arranged, with vegetarian options out of respect–because Jiawen’s parents still had habits.
Jiawen’s mother hovered near the buffet, delighted.
“Wah, so many things,” she whispered, eyes shining.
Jiawen groaned. “Ma. Please.”
Her mother smiled smugly. “I’m happy. I eat.”
Reza approached, dressed in a suit that looked like it was wearing him.
He bowed exaggeratedly.
“Assalamualaikum,” he said, mispronouncing slightly.
Faris sighed.
Jiawen laughed.
Reza grinned. “Congratulations! You two very… proper.”
Faris shot him a look.
Reza held up both hands. “Okay lah. I behave.”
Then he leaned in toward Jiawen, whispering dramatically, “Can I do speech?”
Jiawen’s eyes widened. “No.”
Reza pouted. “Why?”
Jiawen smiled sweetly. “Because I want to be married peacefully.”
Reza gasped. “Wah, you so cruel.”
Farah appeared behind Reza like a predator.
“Reza,” Farah said brightly, “if you do speech, I will take microphone from you and talk about your embarrassing stories.”
Reza froze.
Then he nodded quickly.
“Okay,” he said. “No speech.”
Jiawen laughed.
Faris exhaled slowly, relief moving through his posture.
Later, when the crowds thinned, Jiawen’s father approached Faris.
No theatrics.
No dramatic speeches.
He simply held out his hand.
Faris stepped forward and took it.
The handshake was firm.
Long.
The kind that meant the words were being said without being spoken.
Then Jiawen’s father spoke quietly.
“Take care of her,” he said.
Faris’s throat tightened.
“Yes, Uncle,” he replied.
Jiawen’s father’s gaze held him.
“And don’t isolate,” he added.
Faris nodded.
“I won’t,” he said softly.
Jiawen’s father nodded once.
Then he released the handshake.
He turned to Jiawen.
His eyes softened.
“Okay,” he said to her.
Jiawen’s breath caught.
She nodded, eyes shining.
“Okay,” she whispered back.
Her mother hugged her so hard Jiawen almost lost balance.
“Aiyo,” her mother cried, “my daughter married already.”
Jiawen laughed through tears. “Ma, I’m still your daughter.”
Her mother sniffed. “Yes. But now also someone’s wife.”
Jiawen groaned. “Stop.”
Her mother didn’t stop.
Faris watched, eyes warm.
His mother approached then.
Slow.
Measured.
She looked at Jiawen.
At the scarf.
At the ring.
At the way Jiawen’s parents stood close without fear.
Then Faris’ mother reached out and adjusted the edge of Jiawen’s scarf with careful fingers.
A small gesture.
Not claiming.
Caring.
“You look… good,” Faris’ mother said quietly.
Jiawen’s throat tightened.
“Thank you, Makcik,” Jiawen replied softly, using the respectful term without thinking.
Faris’ mother’s eyes softened.
Then she said, very quietly, “Congratulations.”
Jiawen blinked hard.
Faris watched his mother.
He could see the way she was choosing, too.
Not losing her son.
Gaining a daughter.
Properly.
That night, after everyone left, Jiawen and Faris returned home.
Not a hotel suite.
Not a honeymoon flight.
Home.
Because they wanted the cleanest ending.
Not fantasy.
Reality.
Their flat was quiet.
The air-conditioning hummed.
The kitchen light was still on because Faris always forgot to switch it off.
Jiawen stood in the living room and looked around.
It was the same sofa.
The same coffee table.
The same corridor light outside.
But the air felt different.
Because today had changed their names.
Wife.
Husband.
Jiawen laughed softly, exhausted.
Faris turned to her.
“You okay?” he asked.
Jiawen exhaled.
“No,” she admitted. Then, with a small smile, “Yes.”
Faris’s mouth twitched.
Jiawen reached up and removed her scarf carefully.
Her hair fell slightly messy.
She looked… herself.
She looked at the Penang scarf her mother had given her.
It lay folded in her bag.
Home inside home.
Faris watched her.
He looked tired.
But his eyes were bright.
Jiawen stepped closer.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Faris blinked. “For what?”
Jiawen’s throat tightened.
“For letting me choose,” she said softly. “For not turning it into pressure. For not treating my faith like a hurdle. For… being you.”
Faris swallowed.
He reached into his pocket without thinking.
The handkerchief.
Jiawen groaned softly. “Again.”
Faris’s mouth twitched.
He held it out.
Jiawen stared.
Then she laughed, tears rising anyway.
“It’s our series mascot,” she whispered.
Faris nodded solemnly. “Yes.”
Jiawen took it and pressed it to her eyes.
Then she looked at him through tears.
“Door deal,” she whispered.
Faris nodded.
“Door deal,” he echoed.
Jiawen stepped forward and hugged him.
Not a dramatic embrace.
A long, quiet one.
The kind that said: we survived everything.
HR.
Gossip.
Penang.
Junhao.
Faith.
Families.
And we didn’t do it by running.
We did it by choosing.
Properly.
When they finally separated, Jiawen looked at her ring again.
Then at Faris.
Her voice was small.
“So… now what?”
Faris stared at her.
Then his mouth twitched.
He exhaled.
“Now,” he said softly, “we eat.”
Jiawen blinked.
Faris added, deadpan, “Your mother trained me.”
Jiawen laughed through tears.
She wiped her face with the handkerchief and shook her head.
“You’re ridiculous,” she whispered.
Faris’s eyes warmed.
“Properly,” he murmured.
Jiawen rolled her eyes.
But her smile was real.
And in the quiet of their home, with the day’s noise finally gone, Jiawen realised something with sharp tenderness.
The cleanest wedding wasn’t the venue.
Or the photos.
Or the seating chart.
It was this.
A life where her parents’ support sat behind her like a warm wall.
A husband who never forced.
A faith she had chosen with her own feet.
Two seats.
Not apart.
Not closer.
Together.
Reserved.