Two Seats, One Flight

The boarding pass said 12A.

Faris stared at it like it was a verdict.

He had checked twice–three times, if he was honest–because seat numbers were the kind of detail that could soothe his mind. A small, controllable thing. A coordinate in a world that kept trying to move without permission.

12A.

Next to it, in smaller text, Jiawen’s seat.

12C.

A single letter between them.

Faris looked up from the paper and watched Jiawen at the self check-in kiosk. Her fingers moved fast across the screen, confident, as if she had been doing this for years and not like someone who always complained that airports made her feel like she was being judged by signage.

“Eh,” she said without turning around, “why you so quiet? You already thinking about Penang aunties ah?”

Faris slid the boarding passes back into the folder he’d prepared–prepared, not over-prepared–and walked over.

“I’m thinking about nothing,” he lied.

Jiawen turned, eyes bright with amusement. “Wah. You got the tone of someone who is thinking about everything.”

Faris exhaled, slow.

The terminal around them was waking up in layers: rolling suitcases, the smell of coffee, a child crying with the full conviction of someone who had never accepted disappointment as a concept. Changi always looked too clean to be real, like it had been designed by someone who believed stress could be neutralised with enough polished floors.

It didn’t neutralise anything.

It just reflected your face back at you.

Jiawen tugged her backpack strap higher. “Okay, show me. What’s the problem?”

“There’s no problem.”

Jiawen leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “Faris.”

Faris hesitated.

Then he pulled the boarding passes out again.

Jiawen took them and scanned.

“12A and 12C,” she read aloud. Then she blinked. “Eh? Why you never choose seats together?”

Faris’s mouth tightened. “I did.”

Jiawen looked up.

Faris nodded toward the small print.

The middle seat–12B–was listed as blocked.

Jiawen’s eyes widened.

“Why blocked?” she whispered, as if the plane could hear.

Faris stared at the words with the same irritation he felt when a client insisted a system issue was “random.”

“It’s probably for weight distribution,” he said.

Jiawen’s gaze sharpened. “That’s a lie. Weight distribution doesn’t block one seat only.”

Faris didn’t answer.

Jiawen flipped the boarding pass around like she could interrogate it. “Maybe it’s reserved for crew? Or… or some VIP?”

Faris’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t like the idea of something being reserved in the middle of their row. Not because he cared about proximity like a teenager. He cared because it felt like someone else had decided the space between them.

Jiawen watched him for a beat, then her mouth curved.

“Okay,” she said, light, “we can pretend the empty seat is our child.”

Faris blinked.

Jiawen leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. “We can name it ‘Optics.’”

Faris let out a short sound that was dangerously close to laughter.

“That’s the worst joke you’ve made this week,” he muttered.

Jiawen’s grin widened. “So far.”

Faris took the boarding passes back. He slid them into his folder again as if that could put his irritation away too.

“Come,” he said. “Check-in baggage.”

Jiawen followed him, still smiling.

But Faris noticed the way her smile kept checking the ground beneath it.

Like she was making sure it wouldn’t crack.

The last week before leave had been a careful choreography.

Faris had applied for leave on Tuesday night like he promised. He’d done it at Jiawen’s coffee table while she watched him with suspicious satisfaction, as if she’d finally convinced a stubborn machine to follow human logic.

In the office, he’d arranged coverage with the kind of quiet authority that came from years of making other people’s problems solvable.

Reza was still Reza.

On Wednesday afternoon, Reza had appeared at Faris’s desk with a grin that looked like he’d been saving it.

“Eh, you taking leave?” Reza asked.

Faris didn’t look up. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“Personal.”

Reza gasped dramatically. “Wah, now cannot even share. Since when you become so secretive?”

Jiawen, seated two desks away now because of HR’s safeguards, turned in her chair.

“Reza,” she called sweetly, “you want to know so much for what? You want to follow us?”

Reza spluttered. “No, lah! I just curious.

Jiawen’s smile widened. “Then you should be curious about your own deliverables.”

Reza staggered away clutching his chest like he had been wounded by a small, sharp truth.

Faris watched him go and felt the familiar tug of affection for Jiawen’s spine.

It wasn’t loud.

It was steady.

The HR invite remained on his calendar like an eye that refused to blink.

Quarterly Compliance Check-in – Relationship Disclosure Follow-up

It was scheduled for the week after their return.

Polite.

Clinical.

Like love was a risk category that had to be reviewed.

Jiawen pretended not to care.

Faris could tell she did.

He didn’t fix it for her.

He did what he could: documented boundaries, ensured appraisal chains were clean, kept their collaboration transparent. He made the office boring about them on purpose.

Boring was safety.

But boredom didn’t exist outside the office.

Outside the office, Penang waited.

And Junhao’s number waited, too.

Jiawen had told him she was documenting now.

Faris had watched her the day after–how quickly her thumb moved when her phone vibrated, how she flipped it over and typed without looking at it for a full minute, as if refusing to let the message disrupt the rhythm of her breathing.

He’d wanted to ask for screenshots.

He didn’t.

He trusted her to lead her side.

Door deal.

At security, Jiawen’s bag got flagged.

Faris watched the officer unzip it and pull out a small ziplock bag.

Inside: a stack of tissue packets.

Jiawen’s face went blank.

“Ma’am,” the officer said politely, “why so many?”

Jiawen blinked at him with innocent sincerity.

“I am emotional,” she said.

Faris’s lips tightened.

The officer stared for half a second, then looked at Faris like he was being asked to co-sign.

Faris gave a small nod, solemn. “She is,” he said.

Jiawen’s eyes widened, offended. “Excuse me?!”

Faris kept his face neutral. “It’s true.”

The officer’s mouth twitched. He handed the bag back.

“Okay,” he said, trying very hard not to smile. “Can.”

Jiawen snatched her bag and stormed off with theatrical indignation.

Faris followed, amused despite himself.

“You didn’t have to agree,” Jiawen hissed, once they were out of earshot.

Faris shrugged. “You said it.”

“I said it to him,” Jiawen protested. “Not to you.”

Faris looked at her. “But it’s accurate.”

Jiawen stopped walking and glared.

Faris stopped too.

Around them, people flowed like water. The airport didn’t stop for relationship disputes.

Jiawen’s glare lasted three seconds.

Then her mouth twitched.

Then she laughed.

Faris waited until she was done.

Jiawen shook her head, still smiling. “Okay, okay. You win. Handsome HR.”

Faris sighed, a faint smile pulling at his mouth.

“Stop calling me that,” he muttered.

“Never.”

They found their gate and sat.

Or rather–Faris sat, because he couldn’t stand waiting without feeling like he was missing something.

Jiawen didn’t sit.

She wandered.

She came back with drinks, then left again to buy snacks, then returned with a small bag of pineapple tarts from some duty-free store that had probably weaponised nostalgia.

“This,” she announced, dropping the bag into Faris’s lap, “is for my mother. She likes this brand.”

Faris opened his mouth to ask how she knew the brand, then remembered: Jiawen remembered small things about people because she didn’t treat them like tasks.

He glanced up.

Jiawen was watching him.

“What?” she asked.

Faris hesitated.

Then he said, “Are you okay?”

Jiawen’s expression softened.

“I’m fine,” she replied automatically.

Faris didn’t move.

Jiawen sighed, seeing through his stillness.

“I’m… okay,” she corrected, quieter. “Just… it’s weird.”

“What’s weird?”

Jiawen sat down finally, close but not touching, and pulled her phone out. Her thumb hovered.

“Penang is my home,” she said. “But it doesn’t feel like it’s mine sometimes. Not fully.”

Faris watched her thumb.

“And now you’re bringing me,” she continued, voice almost a whisper. “So it feels like I’m… changing the story. Like I’m rewriting something they already wrote for me.”

Faris’s jaw tightened.

“Good,” he said simply.

Jiawen blinked.

Faris held her gaze. “If the story was wrong, rewrite.”

Jiawen stared at him for a beat, then her mouth trembled slightly.

“You make it sound easy,” she murmured.

Faris didn’t pretend. “It’s not easy.”

Jiawen’s eyes softened.

Faris added, carefully, “But you’re not alone.”

Jiawen’s thumb lowered. She locked her phone.

Then she looked at him and smiled–small, real.

“Okay,” she said.

The announcement for boarding crackled through the speakers.

Faris stood.

Jiawen stood too.

Together, they joined the line.

The moment they stepped into the plane, the air changed.

A controlled cold. A scent of recycled air and faint perfume and something metallic underneath it, like the inside of a machine that wanted to pretend it was a room.

Faris walked down the aisle with Jiawen behind him, checking seat numbers.

12.

He reached their row.

12A. 12B. 12C.

And there it was.

The middle seat–empty.

A small paper strip on the headrest.

RESERVED.

Faris stared.

He hadn’t expected the word to be so literal.

Jiawen reached the row behind him and peeked over his shoulder.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

Faris slid into 12A, placing his folder carefully in the seat pocket like this was still an environment where you controlled things.

Jiawen slid into 12C.

The reserved seat remained between them like a quiet joke.

Jiawen leaned closer, voice low. “You see? The plane also knows our series title.”

Faris glanced at the “RESERVED” strip.

His mouth tightened.

Jiawen nudged him lightly with her elbow across the gap. “Eh. Don’t be grumpy. It’s kind of funny.”

Faris looked at her.

Her eyes were bright with humour, but underneath, something cautious.

He exhaled slowly.

“It’s fine,” he said.

Jiawen narrowed her eyes. “That’s a lie.”

Faris leaned back. “It’s not about seats.”

Jiawen paused.

Then her voice softened. “It’s about space?”

Faris didn’t answer.

Jiawen’s gaze held his.

In that moment, the plane felt too quiet.

Like it was waiting.

Jiawen reached across the gap and placed her fingers on the armrest of the reserved seat.

Not his arm.

Not her arm.

The space between.

“Door deal,” she whispered.

Faris blinked.

Jiawen smiled faintly. “We meet halfway.”

Faris’s chest warmed.

He reached across and placed his fingers on the same armrest.

Their fingertips didn’t touch.

But the space between their hands felt… smaller.

“Door deal,” he murmured.

Jiawen’s smile deepened.

The overhead speakers crackled again–safety instructions, calm voices, rehearsed reassurance.

Faris tried to listen.

But his attention kept catching on the word.

Reserved.

Who reserved it?

For what?

For who?

A flight attendant approached and glanced at the reserved seat.

“Hello,” she said politely to Faris and Jiawen. “This seat is blocked for operational reasons, okay?”

Jiawen nodded quickly. “Okay.”

Faris nodded too.

The attendant moved on.

Jiawen turned to him. “Operational reasons is always the answer,” she whispered. “Same like office.”

Faris let out a breathy laugh.

Jiawen grinned as if she’d won a prize.

Then her phone vibrated.

Once.

Faris saw it out of the corner of his eye.

Jiawen froze.

Her fingers went still.

Faris didn’t move.

He didn’t reach.

He didn’t speak.

He waited.

Jiawen exhaled slowly and turned her phone screen slightly toward herself.

Her eyes flicked.

She didn’t open the message.

Instead, she pulled her Notes app up.

She typed something.

Then she opened her camera.

She took a photo of her screen.

Faris watched the whole sequence, heart tightening.

Jiawen locked her phone and placed it face down on her lap.

Only then did she look at him.

Her voice was quiet.

“I’m documenting,” she said.

Faris nodded.

“Good,” he replied.

Jiawen’s mouth trembled slightly. “It’s stupid that I have to do this.”

“It’s not stupid,” Faris said, calm. “It’s proper.”

Jiawen blinked, then laughed weakly. “Stop. Don’t say properly like it’s… magic.”

Faris’s gaze softened. “It’s not magic.”

Jiawen looked down at her lap.

Faris added, carefully, “It’s just… us refusing to be shaken.”

Jiawen’s throat moved.

She nodded once.

The plane began to move.

The engine noise rose.

The floor vibrated with that familiar sensation of leaving–a gentle force pushing you away from the ground.

Jiawen’s fingers curled around the edge of the reserved seat’s armrest again.

Faris watched.

Then he reached into his bag and pulled out something without thinking.

A handkerchief.

Clean. Folded.

He placed it, not on her side, not on his.

On the reserved seat’s armrest.

Like a bridge.

Jiawen stared.

Faris didn’t look at her.

He kept his eyes forward as if he hadn’t done anything significant.

But he felt Jiawen’s gaze on him.

Then, softly, she said, “You’re doing it again.”

Faris exhaled.

“It’s not… a performance,” he muttered.

Jiawen’s voice warmed. “I know.”

The plane lifted.

For a moment, Faris felt his stomach drop–the small, helpless reminder that some things were out of your hands.

Then the city fell away beneath them.

Changi became a grid.

Singapore became a shape.

And in the space between earth and sky, the word reserved sat quietly between them.

Once they were in the air and the seatbelt sign turned off, Faris tried to open his laptop.

Old habit.

He wanted to check emails. Clear anything urgent. Ensure nothing collapsed while he was away.

The bank rollout had a way of pulling him even when he wasn’t in the room.

His fingers hovered over the latch.

Jiawen watched him.

Then she said softly, “Are you going to work?”

Faris paused.

“I just want to check–”

Jiawen held his gaze.

The plane’s hum filled the silence.

Faris closed his laptop again.

Jiawen’s shoulders loosened.

Faris exhaled, then asked, “Do you want to talk about… Penang questions again?”

Jiawen’s mouth twitched. “Now? On plane?”

Faris shrugged slightly. “We have time.”

Jiawen rolled her eyes. “You really are–”

“Handsome HR,” Faris finished for her, deadpan.

Jiawen choked on her laugh.

The laughter faded into something softer.

Jiawen leaned back and stared at the seat in front of her.

“My mother will be polite,” she said quietly. “But my aunties… my aunties are… creative.”

Faris listened.

“They will ask about you,” Jiawen continued. “Your job, your family, your religion. They will ask about me too. Like… whether I’m serious. Whether I’m stable. Whether I’m just… playing.”

Faris’s jaw tightened.

“They won’t think that,” he said.

Jiawen’s lips curved faintly. “You underestimate aunties.”

Faris looked at her.

Jiawen’s voice softened. “I don’t want them to reduce you to ‘the Muslim boyfriend.’ And I don’t want them to reduce me to ‘the girl who will change.’”

Faris nodded slowly.

“What do you want?” he asked.

Jiawen turned to him.

“I want them to see us,” she said. “Not a problem to solve. Not a debate. Just… us.”

Faris’s chest tightened.

He reached for the handkerchief on the armrest and held it for a second, then set it back down.

“We can only control what we show,” he said.

Jiawen’s eyebrows lifted. “That sounds like work advice.”

Faris’s mouth twitched. “Maybe.”

Jiawen stared at him for a beat.

Then she nodded.

“Okay,” she murmured.

They fell into quiet.

The plane lights dimmed slightly.

People settled.

Faris watched Jiawen from the corner of his eye.

She looked outward–calm, composed.

But he could see the tension in her jaw.

Then, after a long minute, Jiawen spoke again.

“Faris,” she said softly.

He turned.

Jiawen’s eyes were steady.

“If my family asks… the hard questions,” she said, choosing words carefully, “what will you say?”

Faris inhaled.

He didn’t want to be dramatic.

He didn’t want to promise her things like he was selling a dream.

But he also didn’t want to hide behind vagueness.

“I’ll say the truth,” he replied. “That I’m serious. That I respect you. That I respect them. That I’m not here to… take you away from your family.”

Jiawen’s eyes softened.

Faris continued, quieter, “And that I won’t ask you to become small to make my life easier.”

Jiawen blinked hard.

For a moment, her voice caught.

Then she whispered, “Okay.”

Faris stared at the seat numbers on the row in front.

He thought, not for the first time, that this was what adulthood looked like.

Not fireworks.

Not fantasy.

Just two people choosing each other in the middle of real pressure.

When the plane began to descend, Faris felt the air change again.

The cabin pressure shifted.

People sat up.

The window view turned from endless blue to clouds, then to land–green and dense, coastline curling like a slow ribbon.

Penang.

Faris watched the island appear beneath them and felt his chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with weight.

This wasn’t a client visit.

This wasn’t a business trip.

This was personal.

He glanced at Jiawen.

She was staring out the window too.

Her face looked softer now, as if seeing Penang had pulled something familiar out of her.

Then her phone vibrated again.

Faris saw the movement.

Jiawen’s hand went to it.

She didn’t flip it.

She didn’t check.

She just pressed her palm over it, firm.

A physical refusal.

Faris’s chest warmed.

Door deal.

She was leading.

The plane landed.

The wheels hit the runway with a gentle jolt.

People clapped–because people always clapped at landings in a way that felt like superstition.

Jiawen rolled her eyes. “Why they clap? Pilot is doing his job.”

Faris’s mouth twitched. “Maybe they’re grateful.”

“Then they should tip him,” Jiawen muttered.

Faris let out a quiet laugh.

As they stood to disembark, Jiawen reached for the handkerchief on the armrest.

She hesitated.

Then she folded it neatly and handed it back to Faris.

Not taking it.

Not needing it.

Just… acknowledging it.

Faris accepted it, fingers brushing hers briefly.

The touch was small.

But it grounded him.

They stepped off the plane into Penang air.

Warm.

Thicker.

Scented faintly with rain and something earthy.

The airport was smaller than Changi, louder, less polished–more human.

At baggage claim, Jiawen’s phone buzzed.

This time she looked.

Faris watched her expression shift.

Not fear.

Something else.

She turned the screen toward him.

A message from her cousin.

WELCOME HOME!!! Tomorrow bring him Kek Lok Si. Don’t let him wear slippers.

Jiawen snorted.

Faris exhaled slowly.

Then Jiawen’s family group chat exploded.

HE LANDED??

PICTURE PLS

Tell him Penang food best okay

Your mother already cooking

Jiawen stared at the messages, her mouth trembling between laughter and tears.

Faris watched her.

“Okay?” he asked softly.

Jiawen nodded.

Then she lifted her phone and typed:

Yes. We landed. Don’t be crazy. I will send picture later.

Faris’s mouth twitched.

Jiawen glanced up at him.

Then she smiled.

“It starts,” she whispered.

Faris nodded.

“Yes,” he said.

They retrieved their luggage.

They walked toward the exit.

As they stepped into the humid brightness outside the terminal, Jiawen’s fingers slipped lightly around his wrist for half a second.

Not gripping.

Not clinging.

Just… a touch.

A quiet reminder.

Faris looked down at her hand.

Then at her face.

Jiawen’s smile was small, real.

“Door deal,” she murmured.

Faris nodded.

“Door deal,” he echoed.

And as the Penang air wrapped around them like a new layer of reality, Faris felt the shape of the next days forming.

Kek Lok Si.

Aunties.

Questions.

A reserved seat at a dinner table somewhere waiting.

And a past that still tried to knock.

He didn’t know yet how hard it would be.

He only knew one thing.

He was here.

And he was not leaving.

That night, in the guest room at Jiawen’s parents’ apartment–sheets smelling faintly of detergent and home–Faris lay awake for a while listening to the ceiling fan.

Jiawen was in the next room, laughing softly with her mother through the wall.

Penang voices. Familiar cadence. A warmth that carried.

Faris stared at the darkness and thought of the reserved seat on the plane.

The paper strip.

The word.

Reserved.

He reached into his bag and touched the handkerchief, folded neatly.

For the first time since leaving Singapore, he let himself think the thought fully.

Not as a plan.

Not as a tracker.

As a decision.

He didn’t know when.

He didn’t know how public.

But he knew it would happen.

Properly.

With witnesses.

With love that didn’t hide.

With two seats reserved by their own hands.

Outside, Penang hummed–cars in the distance, voices, the soft life of a city that didn’t know it was about to become the setting for the most personal thing Faris had ever done.

He closed his eyes.

Tomorrow, the questions would begin.

Tonight, he allowed himself one quiet truth.

He was already choosing her.