Chapter 1 - A Voice in the Quiet

Chapter 1: A Voice in the Quiet

Rafiq had never paid much attention to company events. As an engineer, most of his time was tucked away behind screens and numbers, in a corner of the office where silence felt like a second skin. He would attend the occasional town hall or department lunch out of courtesy, but rarely lingered. Small talk wasn’t his forte, and smiling for the sake of optics felt exhausting.

But there was one woman he noticed.

He didn’t know her name. Didn’t know her age. Just that she always seemed composed, always smiling politely at these gatherings. She wasn’t loud or showy—if anything, she blended in too well. He had spotted her at birthday cakes cut too early, at buffet lines in the pantry, at team events where she lingered at the edges of conversation. She looked slightly older than most—but in a graceful way. Unbothered. Self-contained.

He never expected to cross paths with her.

Until the Dinner & Dance committee placed them both in the company performance group.

It started with a sign-up form circulated on a slow Monday. Rafiq, ever the extrovert in hiding, added his name with a shrug. He hadn’t sung in public in years, but it sounded more fun than sitting through another scripted award ceremony.

When the rehearsal invite came, he showed up in sneakers and a faded band tee, already humming a beat. The rehearsal room was a makeshift setup—a meeting room with foldable chairs, a Bluetooth speaker, and a keyboard borrowed from HR.

That’s when she walked in.

The same quiet girl from admin. Her name tag read: Meilin.

She was the last to introduce herself. Voice soft, gaze steady. She looked uncomfortable, even shy—but when it was her turn to sing a sample, something changed.

She sang an old Mandarin ballad. One he didn’t recognize, but it didn’t matter.

Her voice was rich, soulful, and full of this aching sincerity that caught him off guard. It wasn’t just the sound—it was the way she sang like no one was watching, like each note meant something. He felt something stir in his chest, something he hadn’t felt in years.

He was stunned.

They were grouped together for a duet. The announcement was met with polite nods, and a flicker of discomfort in her eyes. She gave a quick smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach the edges, while he grinned in his usual way—half charm, half deflection.

The first rehearsal was stiff. Rafiq, trying to ease the tension, cracked jokes about tone-deaf engineers and singing contracts. Meilin chuckled softly but kept her eyes down, focused on the lyrics sheet as though memorizing it could shield her from the awkwardness.

She was careful with her words. He noticed. She listened more than she spoke, nodding rather than offering opinions. But when she sang—something shifted. Her voice, so quiet in conversation, swelled with emotion in rehearsal. Each note carried a kind of vulnerability that he hadn’t expected.

It made him quieter.

Over the next few days, things began to change. Not dramatically. Just… gently. They stayed back five minutes longer. Then ten. Then “accidentally” walked to the MRT together. Their harmonies improved. They laughed more. The silence between songs became comfortable.

They practiced late into the evenings. At first, it was just once a week, but soon, they were meeting after work nearly every other day—sometimes even on weekends when schedules aligned. They reserved the smallest meeting room on the fourth floor, tucked away from the main corridor. He would bring his old acoustic guitar. She brought warm honey tea in a thermos, which she quietly placed between them on the table.

Their harmonies clashed, then clicked. Meilin had perfect pitch, but he had instinct—an emotional edge to his tone that made even simple melodies feel raw. They disagreed often, but kindly. She preferred structured rehearsals; he liked to improvise. Still, they found a rhythm.

They started teasing each other over off-key notes. He began calling her “Miss Key Change” after one particularly dramatic transition. She retaliated by dubbing him “Mr. Flatline” whenever he missed a note by half a breath.

Laughter started to linger. In between songs, they shared bits of themselves—small things, like how he used to play in a mosque youth band, or how she once sang backup for a friend’s wedding and nearly cried halfway through. She admitted music had always been her escape—“A way to feel without having to explain.”

One night, after a long practice, Meilin stayed seated while Rafiq packed his guitar. She stared at the now-quiet room and said, barely above a whisper, “I haven’t sung like this in years. Not with someone who listens.”

He paused, the zipper on his case half-done. “Same.”

He caught her looking at him once, just before they finished a run-through the next evening. Her expression was unreadable—part surprise, part softness. Neither said anything.

Their first full run of the duet happened on a quiet Thursday evening, long after most of the office had cleared out. Just the two of them in the tiny meeting room, blinds drawn, the faint buzz of the aircon the only background noise.

He strummed the opening chords, glancing up to find her already looking at him, her expression unreadable. When she nodded, he began to sing—soft, measured, more focused than he’d ever been in these rehearsals. Her voice followed, weaving into his like silk into thread.

For the first time, they weren’t thinking about pitch or lyrics. They weren’t watching each other for cues. They were simply there, caught in a moment neither of them had expected to feel.

By the final chorus, something had shifted. It wasn’t just performance. It wasn’t just music.

It was presence. Trust. A quiet beginning of something neither dared name.

Something else. Something beginning.

—

Meilin hadn’t expected any of it.

Not the duet. Not the connection. Not the way Rafiq’s voice settled into her thoughts long after the music had ended. It unnerved her—how easily his presence had slipped under the door she had carefully kept closed for years.

She had joined the D&D performance group on impulse. Someone from HR had asked in the pantry, and she, caught off guard and too polite to decline, said yes. It had been years since she sang for anything beyond her own comfort. In Jakarta, she had been known for her voice once—church choirs, family gatherings, weddings. But that felt like another life. Here in Singapore, she had shrunk those parts of herself. Singing was private now. A refuge, not a showcase.

She remembered how her palms were clammy during the first rehearsal. She had scanned the room for an escape route before choosing the chair closest to the exit. When her name was called, something in her chest tightened. But she closed her eyes, let her voice find the shape of the melody, and when she opened them again… the room was quieter. Still. Especially him.

Rafiq.

She had seen him in passing—engineering floor, technical briefings where she nodded without always understanding the acronyms. He was younger. She could tell. But not in a way that made her feel older. Just… different. He had a relaxed confidence, the kind that came from knowing who you were, but not needing to prove it. He didn’t fill the silence with empty words. He let it sit. Made room for it.

And when they sang together, she felt—unexpectedly—at ease.

It had been so long since she’d felt that kind of ease. With anyone. She didn’t have to explain herself. She didn’t have to measure her words or pretend to be less. He listened. Really listened. He noticed when her voice hesitated, when her fingers fidgeted, when she stood too still between lines.

There was one moment—just before they finished a chorus—when she glanced up and caught him looking at her. Not distracted. Not amused. Just… seeing her. That kind of gaze frightened her, not because it was intense, but because it was gentle. And she wasn’t used to gentleness directed at her.

He teased her sometimes. Called her “Miss Key Change.” She had rolled her eyes, but it warmed her—being seen like that, in jest, without malice. She began teasing him back, and their rehearsals loosened. She began looking forward to them. Not just the music. The moments in between.

She started walking slower on the way to the MRT.

She noticed how he hummed while packing up.

She brought extra tea in case he forgot his bottle.

It wasn’t a crush. It wasn’t romantic—not yet. But it was something quietly potent, like a song just beginning its verse, the melody still unsure of where it would go.

Meilin didn’t believe in fairy tales. She believed in work, in compromise, in keeping her expectations modest. She had learned, over the years, how to take care of herself. Not to need.

But that night, after their first full run of the duet, she walked home under a soft drizzle with his voice echoing in her head.

And for the first time in years, she let herself wonder:

What if something was starting?

Something real.