The Temple Line
By morning, Penang had already decided what kind of day it would be.
The air was thick enough to feel like fabric, warm and damp against Faris’ skin the moment he stepped out of the guest room. The ceiling fan in the hallway whirred with a steady impatience, pushing air around without truly cooling anything. From the kitchen came the soft percussion of breakfast–chopsticks tapping porcelain, a kettle clicking, someone rinsing leafy vegetables under running water.
Faris paused for a second in the doorway, listening.
The voices were different from Singapore.
Not louder exactly–just more layered. Penang carried conversation in a way that made it feel like it had always been happening, long before you arrived and long after you left. The cadence of Hokkien in the distance, the quick Malay of a neighbour in the corridor, the Mandarin of Jiawen’s mother speaking to someone on the phone while stirring something that smelled faintly of ginger.
Faris stepped into the living room.
Jiawen was already there, hair clipped up messily with a claw clip that looked like it had survived several phases of her life. She sat cross-legged on the sofa, scrolling through her phone with a kind of focused dread, the way you looked at something you couldn’t stop checking even though you knew it would make you anxious.
Her father sat at the dining table, reading the newspaper with the calm authority of someone who had been doing it for decades. He didn’t look up, but Faris noticed the way his eyes tracked Faris’ movement above the paper line–subtle, quiet, assessing.
Jiawen’s mother moved between the stove and the counter, a small woman with quick hands and a face that seemed perpetually alert. When she saw Faris, she smiled warmly.
“Good morning, Faris,” she said in English–careful, clear, as if she wanted him to feel included.
“Good morning, Auntie,” Faris replied. He kept his tone respectful, his posture straight without looking stiff.
Jiawen’s mother gestured to the counter. “Breakfast. You eat first. Later we go out.”
Faris nodded. “Thank you, Auntie.”
Jiawen lifted her eyes and gave him a look that said prepare yourself.
He walked toward the counter.
There was congee, pale and steaming, with a side of preserved vegetables. There were hard-boiled eggs, sliced neatly. There were little dishes of condiments, chilli and soy and something dark and fragrant that reminded him of sesame.
He hesitated at the egg.
Jiawen’s mother noticed.
“No pork,” she said quickly, almost apologetic. “Everything vegetarian. I buy special. Okay?”
Faris blinked.
It was such a small thing–an egg, a dish of vegetables–and yet it landed with weight.
“Yes, Auntie,” he said, voice steady. “Okay. Thank you.”
Jiawen’s mother’s shoulders loosened slightly, as if she had been holding a tension he hadn’t seen.
Jiawen’s father lowered his newspaper just enough to look over the top.
“You sleep well?” he asked.
“Yes, Uncle,” Faris replied.
Jiawen’s father nodded once, as if filing away the answer.
Jiawen, still on the sofa, said without looking up, “He sleeps like a dead person. No movement.”
Faris glanced at her. “That’s not true.”
Jiawen’s eyes flashed up, amused. “It’s true. I knocked your door last night to ask if you want water. No answer. I thought you fainted.”
Faris frowned. “You knocked?”
“I knocked,” Jiawen confirmed.
“Why didn’t you call?”
“Because I’m not your HR hotline,” Jiawen said sweetly.
Jiawen’s mother laughed softly.
Jiawen’s father’s mouth twitched–almost a smile, gone before it could fully appear.
Faris felt his chest warm slightly.
It wasn’t approval, not yet.
But it wasn’t cold.
He took a bowl, sat at the dining table with a careful distance that didn’t intrude but didn’t exclude him either.
Jiawen’s mother placed a cup of tea near him. “Drink. Very hot.”
“Thank you, Auntie.”
Jiawen finally put her phone down and walked over, leaning on the back of Faris’ chair for a second. Her fingers brushed his shoulder–light, accidental enough to be acceptable, deliberate enough to reassure.
“Today we go Kek Lok Si,” she announced.
Faris nodded. He knew. Her cousin had already commanded it.
Jiawen’s mother nodded too. “Yes. We bring you see. Very nice. Many stairs.” She looked at Faris pointedly. “You can climb?”
Faris answered with dead seriousness. “I can.”
Jiawen snorted, then covered it with a cough.
Jiawen’s father folded his newspaper. “After that,” he said, “we go your auntie house. Tonight, dinner. Big dinner.”
Jiawen’s expression shifted.
Faris noticed. The words big dinner tightened something in her shoulders.
“Seating already arranged,” Jiawen’s father added casually.
Jiawen froze.
Faris looked at her.
Jiawen’s mother, oblivious or pretending to be, continued stirring something in the kitchen. “Yes, yes. Many people. You don’t worry. Everyone friendly.”
Jiawen’s eyes met Faris’. A quick flash of panic–then she forced a smile.
“Friendly,” she echoed under her breath.
Faris’s fingers curled around his spoon. He kept his face calm.
Door deal.
She would lead.
He would follow without bulldozing.
But he could feel the day beginning to tighten, like a thread pulled slowly taut.
They left mid-morning.
Jiawen’s father drove.
Faris sat in the front passenger seat, Jiawen in the back with her mother–because Jiawen’s mother insisted she wanted to talk to her daughter, which Faris understood was code for I want to assess him without him listening too closely.
The car smelled faintly of menthol and something sweet from the air freshener clipped to the vent.
Penang slid past the window in pieces: shoplots with faded signage, motorbikes weaving through traffic like impatient fish, hawker stalls setting up under tarpaulins. The sky was a pale, hazy blue that made the island feel like it was under a soft filter.
Jiawen leaned forward from the back seat.
“Uncle,” she said to her father, “you know Faris cannot eat some things. Later you don’t bring him random place.”
Her father responded without looking away from the road. “I know. Halal.”
Jiawen’s mother chimed in brightly, “We can eat vegetarian. Same.”
Jiawen’s voice softened. “You don’t have to do vegetarian every meal.”
Her mother waved a hand. “It’s okay. One weekend only.”
Faris’s chest tightened again.
He didn’t want them to accommodate him to the point it became a burden.
He glanced at Jiawen in the rearview mirror.
Jiawen met his eyes briefly, then gave a small nod. Like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Door deal.
Meet halfway.
The car climbed slowly toward the hills.
Kek Lok Si appeared in pieces first–red pillars, curved roofs, lanterns hanging like bright punctuation against greenery. The temple complex spread along the slope, layered and expansive, as if it had grown there naturally.
They parked.
The moment Faris stepped out, the sound hit him.
Bells.
Not loud, but persistent, a metallic note that seemed to linger in the air. Incense smoke drifted in soft ribbons, carrying a sweet, woody smell that clung to your clothes. Voices moved around him–tourists, families, children running too fast.
Jiawen’s mother turned toward him.
“Okay,” she said, cheerful. “We go inside. You follow.”
Faris nodded.
Jiawen stepped closer to him, her shoulder brushing his arm.
“Remember,” she murmured under her breath, “you don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”
Faris looked at her.
Her eyes were steady.
He nodded. “I know.”
Jiawen’s mouth twitched. “And don’t call anyone auntie unless they are actually auntie. Penang people will claim you.”
Faris frowned slightly. “How do I know?”
Jiawen’s grin turned wicked. “You don’t. That’s the fun.”
Faris sighed.
Jiawen laughed.
Then she turned toward her parents, switching into the version of herself that belonged here–still Jiawen, but softer around the edges, more careful with her tone.
They climbed.
The stairs were real.
Faris could feel sweat gather at the base of his neck. His shirt stuck slightly to his back. Jiawen’s father walked ahead with the calm endurance of someone who had climbed these steps many times. Jiawen’s mother paused occasionally, pointing out statues, taking photos, narrating small things with an excitement that felt like pride.
“This one very famous,” she said, gesturing at a carved figure. “Many people come pray.”
Faris nodded.
Jiawen hovered near him, matching his pace.
At one point, they reached a courtyard where worshippers stood before an altar, hands pressed together, incense held upright like fragile towers. The air was dense with smoke.
Jiawen’s mother stepped forward, her face shifting into reverence.
Jiawen followed.
Then she paused and glanced back at Faris.
Faris stopped a few steps behind.
Not because he was judging.
Because he understood boundaries.
He stood with his hands loosely at his sides, respectful distance, eyes lowered.
Jiawen’s gaze held him for a second.
Then she nodded once–tiny, grateful.
She stepped forward to join her mother.
Faris watched, feeling a strange dissonance.
He was not an outsider here in the way he’d feared.
But he was not fully inside either.
And that was… okay.
As long as no one forced him to pretend.
A woman in her sixties approached Jiawen’s mother, speaking quickly in Hokkien.
Jiawen’s mother responded, equally quick.
The woman’s eyes flicked to Faris.
Jiawen’s mother gestured toward him.
The woman smiled.
Then she walked straight up to Faris.
“Boyfriend ah?” she asked in accented English, loud enough that the word carried.
Faris blinked.
Jiawen appeared at his side instantly, like she had felt the shift in the air.
“Yes,” Jiawen replied before Faris could answer. Her voice was light, polite, unapologetic.
The woman’s smile widened. She looked Faris up and down with a thoroughness that would have been rude anywhere else but somehow felt normal here.
“Wah,” she said. “Very tall. Good.”
Faris’s ears warmed.
The woman turned to Jiawen. “You finally bring. Good, good.”
Jiawen’s smile tightened slightly.
The woman looked back at Faris. “You from where?”
“Singapore,” Faris answered.
“Malay?”
“Yes.”
The woman nodded, satisfied. “Muslim?”
“Yes.”
The woman didn’t flinch.
Instead, she nodded again as if ticking a box.
Then she said, with a casualness that made Faris’s stomach tighten, “So you marry her, she become Muslim ah?”
Jiawen’s fingers went still.
Faris felt the air shift.
This–this was the line.
The temple line.
The place where respect could become assumption.
Faris didn’t look at Jiawen’s mother.
He didn’t look at Jiawen’s father.
He looked at Jiawen.
Door deal.
She led her family.
He followed.
But this wasn’t just family. It was their future being poked like a bruise.
Jiawen’s mouth opened.
Faris spoke first–not over her, but beside her.
“Auntie,” he said politely, “we respect each other. We don’t force.”
The woman blinked.
Faris continued, voice calm, steady. “If one day we decide something, we decide properly. Together. Not because of pressure.”
Jiawen’s eyes widened slightly at the word together.
The woman stared for a second.
Then she smiled again, as if amused.
“Wah,” she said, “very mature answer.”
She patted Faris’ arm without asking permission. “Good. Good.”
Then she turned away, already scanning for another person to interrogate.
Jiawen exhaled slowly.
Her shoulders had stiffened without her realising.
Faris glanced at her.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
Jiawen’s mouth twitched. “You just used ‘Auntie’ incorrectly.”
Faris blinked. “She called herself auntie.”
“No,” Jiawen whispered, half laughing, half horrified. “She is my mother’s friend. Not auntie.”
Faris stared.
Jiawen’s grin widened. “I told you. Penang people will claim you.”
Faris sighed, but relief warmed his chest.
Jiawen leaned closer, voice softer. “Thank you.”
Faris’s brows knit. “For what?”
“For answering like that,” Jiawen murmured. “You didn’t make it… defensive. You didn’t make it vague.”
Faris held her gaze.
“Proper,” he said quietly.
Jiawen rolled her eyes, but her smile softened.
“Stop,” she whispered.
But the way she looked at him said she didn’t really want him to.
They continued walking.
Jiawen’s mother took photos of them in front of lanterns. Jiawen posed with exaggerated reluctance.
“Ma,” she complained, “why you take so many?”
Jiawen’s mother laughed. “Because nice! Later show your aunties.”
Jiawen groaned.
Faris watched, amused.
In the bright temple courtyard, in the incense-sweet air, he saw Jiawen as her family saw her: a daughter who had gone away and returned with a new chapter in her hands.
He wondered, briefly, if he deserved to be that chapter.
Then he remembered Jiawen’s words.
As a choice.
He didn’t need to deserve it.
He needed to honour it.
By late afternoon, they were at Jiawen’s aunt’s house.
It was a landed terrace in a neighbourhood where the roads were narrow and lined with potted plants. Someone had hung red decorations at the doorway–wedding season signals, bright against the cream walls.
The moment they stepped inside, Faris felt like he had walked into a living organism.
People.
So many people.
Voices overlapping. Laughter. Children weaving between legs. Aunties in the kitchen moving like a coordinated team, passing plates and bowls, arguing about seasoning.
Someone shouted Jiawen’s name, and three people turned at once.
“Jiawen!”
“Wah, you finally come!”
“Come here, come here!”
Jiawen smiled, the polite version that had been trained into her, and walked forward.
Faris followed, careful, holding a bag of gifts Jiawen’s mother had insisted they bring.
A woman in a floral blouse grabbed Jiawen’s hands.
“Wah, you thinner,” she declared.
Jiawen grimaced. “Auntie–”
The woman’s eyes slid to Faris.
“Oh!” she said. “This is him ah!”
Before Faris could answer, another auntie appeared, then another.
Faris felt himself being surrounded.
“Very tall!”
“Very handsome!”
“Singapore boy!”
Jiawen coughed. “He’s not boy. He’s twenty-nine.”
The aunties squealed like this was somehow funnier.
Faris kept his face calm, but his ears warmed.
Then one of them said, “Wah, older. Better. Mature.”
Jiawen looked horrified.
Faris’s mouth twitched.
Jiawen hissed under her breath, “Do not smile.”
Faris smiled a little more.
Jiawen shot him a look like she would end him.
Then the aunties began their questions.
Job.
Family.
Where in Singapore.
How long together.
When wedding.
Faris answered with polite brevity. He kept his tone respectful, his posture open. He didn’t over-explain.
In the corner of his eye, he saw Jiawen’s father speaking to a group of men. Jiawen’s mother disappeared into the kitchen.
Jiawen was still trapped in the auntie ring.
Faris could see her smile tightening.
He wanted to step in.
He didn’t.
Door deal.
She led.
He followed.
Then he noticed something that made his stomach tighten.
A printed sheet taped near the living room entrance.
A seating plan.
Names.
Tables.
Faris’s eyes scanned automatically.
Table 1 – Elders
Table 2 – Women (Family)
Table 3 – Men (Family)
Table 4 – Cousins / Friends
His name was there.
Not under Table 2.
Not under Table 4.
Under Table 3.
Jiawen’s name was under Table 2.
Separated.
Placed.
Assigned.
Faris felt irritation flicker–small, controlled.
It wasn’t childish. It wasn’t about being glued to her.
It was about what it implied.
A test.
A statement.
A reminder: you can be chosen, but still placed.
Jiawen broke free from the auntie ring and walked toward him, breath slightly quick.
“You survived?” she whispered.
Faris glanced at the seating plan again.
Jiawen followed his gaze.
Her face changed.
“Of course,” she murmured.
Faris looked at her.
Jiawen’s mouth tightened. “They’re doing traditional seating. Men table, women table. It’s normal.”
Her tone insisted.
Her eyes didn’t.
Faris nodded slowly.
“It’s okay,” he said.
Jiawen’s gaze sharpened suspiciously. “That’s a lie.”
Faris’s mouth twitched faintly.
“It’s not about seats,” he said.
Jiawen stared.
Then her voice softened. “It’s about being placed.”
Faris didn’t answer.
Jiawen exhaled.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Faris’s brows knit. “Why?”
“Because it’s like…” Jiawen swallowed. “It’s like Penang is doing HR.”
Faris let out a breathy laugh, surprising himself.
Jiawen’s mouth twitched too.
Then she leaned closer, voice low. “Door deal. We do this properly. We don’t panic. We don’t act weird. We just… survive.”
Faris nodded.
“Door deal,” he murmured.
Jiawen’s fingers brushed his wrist briefly–a grounding touch.
Then she pulled away quickly as another auntie approached.
“Jiawen,” the auntie said loudly, “you sit Table 2 okay! Later you help serve dessert.”
Jiawen smiled brightly. “Okay, Auntie.”
Then the auntie looked at Faris.
“You sit Table 3 with men,” she declared. “They will ask you many things.”
Faris nodded politely. “Okay.”
The auntie smiled, satisfied, and walked away.
Jiawen’s smile faded the moment the auntie’s back turned.
Faris watched her.
He wanted to say something that made it lighter.
But he didn’t want to dismiss her feelings.
So he just said softly, “Later we find each other.”
Jiawen blinked.
Faris continued, voice calm. “Like office pantry.”
Jiawen’s mouth trembled into a smile.
“3:20,” she whispered.
Faris nodded.
“3:20,” he echoed.
Dinner began in waves.
The elders were seated first.
Then the women.
Then the men.
Faris followed Jiawen’s father to Table 3.
The men there were mostly older than him–uncles, older cousins, a few family friends. They shook his hand with firm grips and polite smiles.
“So you work what?” one of them asked.
Faris answered.
“Client implementation. Banking.”
The uncle nodded slowly. “Banking ah. Stressful.”
“Yes.”
Another man leaned forward. “You from which part of Singapore?”
Faris answered.
Then the questions shifted.
“How long with Jiawen?”
Faris answered carefully. “We’ve known each other since she interned at my company. Together officially… recently.”
The word officially drew a few raised brows.
One of them smiled knowingly. “Wah. Office romance.”
Faris kept his expression neutral. “We manage properly.”
The men laughed.
“Aiyah, proper,” one of them repeated, amused. “You Singapore people like that.”
Faris forced a small smile.
Across the room, he could see Table 2 in the corner of his vision–women clustered, voices lively, hands moving. He couldn’t hear Jiawen, but he could see her face occasionally as she turned.
Every time he caught her eye, she looked away quickly.
Not because she didn’t want to look.
Because she didn’t want to be caught.
Faris hated that.
He hated that the world made them cautious.
He hated that love had to learn stealth.
Plates arrived.
Vegetable dishes. Fish dishes. Chicken.
Faris didn’t touch the meat. He stuck to the vegetables, the rice, the soup.
One uncle noticed.
“You don’t eat chicken?”
Faris shook his head politely. “Not halal.”
The uncle nodded, not offended. “Ah. Okay, okay.”
Then, unexpectedly, he gestured toward a dish of tofu. “Eat this. Very nice. Penang style.”
Faris blinked.
“Thank you,” he said.
The uncle smiled. “No need thank. You are guest.”
A small warmth moved through Faris’ chest.
Across the room, laughter rose from the women’s table.
Faris watched Jiawen, trying to read her.
She laughed too.
But he could see the tension in her jaw.
Then, suddenly, she stopped laughing.
Her head tilted slightly.
Her eyes narrowed.
Someone at the women’s table said something.
Jiawen’s smile tightened.
Faris’s fingers curled around his chopsticks.
He couldn’t hear the words.
But he could feel the shift.
A cousin’s laughter rose–sharp, teasing.
Jiawen’s shoulders stiffened.
Faris’s stomach tightened.
He forced himself to keep eating.
To keep answering.
To keep his presence calm.
Then one of the men at his table said something that made Faris’s blood run colder.
“Your girl last time got boyfriend in Singapore right?”
Faris’s chopsticks paused.
The man continued casually, as if discussing weather. “He is… Junhao? Something like that. I heard he ask about her.”
Faris felt the air thicken.
His mouth dried.
He kept his face neutral.
But inside, something tightened into steel.
“I don’t know,” Faris replied carefully.
The man shrugged. “Penang small. People talk. He message her cousin I think.”
Faris nodded slowly.
He forced his jaw to relax.
He couldn’t react.
Not here.
Not publicly.
Door deal.
Jiawen led her family.
He held the line.
But he could see Jiawen across the room now–her face had turned pale, her smile gone.
She had heard something too.
Her fingers were still.
Faris felt a sharp urge to stand.
To walk over.
To take her hand in front of everyone.
He stayed seated.
But his eyes didn’t leave her.
Jiawen pushed her chair back slightly.
She stood.
She smiled politely at the women’s table, said something, then walked toward the corridor.
Faris’s chest tightened.
A moment later, he stood.
“Excuse me,” he said to the men, voice calm.
One of them blinked. “Where you go?”
“Toilet,” Faris replied.
They nodded, unconcerned.
Faris walked away.
Not fast.
Not dramatic.
But his heart beat hard.
In the corridor, the noise of the dinner softened.
The air was cooler.
Jiawen stood near a window at the end, looking out at the darkening street. Her shoulders were tense, her hands clenched loosely.
Faris approached slowly.
Jiawen didn’t turn.
“I heard,” she said quietly.
Faris stopped a step behind her.
“He asked,” Jiawen continued, voice tight. “He’s asking about me. Like I’m… still available.”
Faris’s jaw tightened.
“We handle properly,” he said.
Jiawen let out a short laugh that had no humour. “Stop saying properly.”
Faris’s chest tightened.
He stepped closer, careful.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Then what do you want me to say?”
Jiawen’s shoulders trembled slightly.
“I don’t want you to fight,” she whispered.
“I’m not fighting,” Faris replied.
Jiawen turned then, eyes bright with anger and fear.
“I don’t want him to become a scene,” she said. “Not in front of my family. Not in Penang. I don’t want my life to be… entertainment.”
Faris held her gaze.
“Then we don’t give him that,” he said.
Jiawen’s throat moved.
Faris continued, calmer, “We document. We tell your parents the truth. We don’t hide. And we don’t… negotiate with him.”
Jiawen stared at him.
Her eyes glistened.
Then she blinked hard.
“You’re so calm,” she whispered. “How are you so calm?”
Faris exhaled.
“I’m not calm,” he admitted quietly. “I’m just… controlled.”
Jiawen’s mouth trembled into something like a smile.
Faris stepped closer.
In the corridor, away from tables and eyes, he raised his hand slightly.
Not touching.
Asking permission without words.
Jiawen hesitated.
Then she leaned forward, just enough that her forehead brushed his shoulder.
A small collapse.
Faris’s hand settled lightly on the back of her head, fingers gentle against her hair clip.
He didn’t hold her like she was breaking.
He held her like she was real.
Jiawen’s breath shook.
“I hate this,” she whispered into his shoulder.
“I know,” Faris murmured.
Jiawen’s voice tightened. “I hate that he can still… appear. Like a ghost.”
Faris’s jaw tightened.
“He doesn’t get to haunt you,” he said quietly.
Jiawen lifted her head slightly, eyes shining.
“But he tries,” she whispered.
Faris’s gaze held hers.
“Then we keep closing the door,” he said.
Jiawen’s mouth trembled.
“Door deal,” she whispered.
Faris nodded.
“Door deal,” he echoed.
They stayed there for a moment, breathing.
Then Jiawen pulled back, wiping her eyes quickly with her fingers like she was embarrassed.
Faris reached into his pocket automatically.
The handkerchief.
He held it out.
Jiawen stared at it.
Then she laughed weakly. “You really…”
Faris’s mouth twitched. “It’s not a performance.”
Jiawen took it, pressed it to her eyes.
Then she inhaled slowly.
When she lowered it, her gaze was steadier.
“Okay,” she said.
Faris nodded.
Jiawen’s voice softened. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not… taking over,” Jiawen whispered. “For being here without making it about you.”
Faris’s chest tightened.
“I’m here because it’s about you,” he said.
Jiawen’s eyes glistened again.
Then she took a deep breath.
“Okay,” she said, firmer. “We go back. We don’t act weird. We don’t give anyone a story.”
Faris nodded.
“And later,” Jiawen added, voice low, “after dinner, we talk to my parents.”
Faris’s jaw tightened.
“Okay,” he said.
Jiawen folded the handkerchief carefully and held it in her palm like a small promise.
They walked back.
Not side by side.
Not touching.
But with the quiet understanding that the space between them wasn’t empty.
It was chosen.
When they returned to the dinner, the noise swallowed them again.
Jiawen slipped back into Table 2 with a bright smile that looked practiced.
Faris returned to Table 3 and resumed his calm.
The men continued talking.
One of them asked about Faris’ parents.
Faris answered.
Another asked about religion again, but softer.
Faris answered with the same steadiness.
Respect.
No forcing.
Proper.
The word became a rhythm.
It carried him.
Across the room, Jiawen laughed again–this time with more control.
Faris watched her and felt a quiet, protective pride.
She wasn’t shrinking.
She was holding her own.
Dessert arrived–sweet soups, fruit, small cakes.
After dinner, people began to move.
Chairs scraped.
Voices rose.
Someone turned on music.
In the chaos, Jiawen’s mother approached Faris.
“Faris,” she said warmly, “you okay? You eat enough?”
Faris nodded. “Yes, Auntie. Thank you.”
Jiawen’s mother smiled, then lowered her voice.
“Tonight you stay here or back home?”
Faris glanced toward Jiawen.
Jiawen was speaking to a cousin, smiling politely.
He answered carefully. “We go back to your house.”
Jiawen’s mother nodded. “Okay. Later you talk with Uncle a bit.”
Faris’s chest tightened.
Talk.
That word in family language meant evaluation.
He nodded. “Okay, Auntie.”
Jiawen’s mother patted his arm gently. “Don’t worry. My husband… he just want to understand.”
Faris nodded.
He wanted to say I want to understand too.
But he swallowed it.
Later.
When the time came.
As they prepared to leave, Jiawen slipped beside him.
Her fingers brushed his wrist lightly.
Not holding.
Just a signal.
Faris looked down.
Jiawen’s smile was small.
“We survived,” she whispered.
Faris’s mouth twitched. “Not yet.”
Jiawen rolled her eyes. “You very dramatic.”
Faris looked at her.
His voice softened. “We talk to your parents.”
Jiawen’s smile tightened slightly.
Then she nodded.
“Door deal,” she whispered.
Faris nodded.
“Door deal,” he echoed.
They stepped out into Penang night.
The air was cooler, but still thick. Streetlights cast warm pools onto the road. Motorbikes buzzed past. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed loudly.
Faris walked toward the car.
Then, as if the universe refused to let him rest, his phone buzzed.
A notification.
Unknown number.
His stomach tightened.
He didn’t open it.
He didn’t have to.
He already knew.
He glanced at Jiawen.
She had seen his face.
Her fingers went still.
“What?” she asked quietly.
Faris inhaled.
He didn’t want to bring it into the open air.
But hiding was what gave it power.
So he turned his phone slightly.
A preview.
I’m here. Don’t pretend you can erase me.
Jiawen’s face went pale.
Faris’s jaw tightened.
He locked his phone.
Then he looked at her.
“We talk to your parents,” he said softly.
Jiawen swallowed.
Then she nodded.
“Okay,” she whispered.
But the way she held the handkerchief in her palm–tight, like a handle on the world–told Faris something.
Tonight wasn’t just about surviving a dinner.
It was about closing a door.
Properly.
And in the back of his mind, the thought returned–quiet, inevitable.
Two seats.
Reserved.
Not assigned.
Not placed.
Chosen.
Faris followed Jiawen toward the car, Penang night closing around them like a curtain.
Behind the laughter and the warm streetlights, a question waited.
How many times did you have to shut a door before it finally stayed closed?