Chapter 14 - The Question Beneath Everything
Chapter 14: The Question Beneath Everything
The email came on a Wednesday.
Just as Meilin was finishing a monthly report, it arrived—unassuming and short. A polite reminder that her contract would end in two weeks. A note that renewal was “under review.” No promises. Just possibility.
She stared at the screen for a long time after. The lines didn’t surprise her, but seeing them in writing made it real.
That evening, she didn’t tell Rafiq. Not yet. They shared dinner as usual. He teased her gently about mispronouncing a Malay dish. She laughed on cue. But her mind drifted.
She found herself watching him more—how he set the table, how he paused mid-sentence to listen fully, how his presence filled a room quietly. He wasn’t flashy. But he was steady. Certain.
And maybe that’s why she hesitated.
Because she wasn’t. Not yet.
There were nights when she lay awake wondering what her life would look like a year from now. Would she be back in Jakarta? Would she feel like a stranger again in her own city? Could she stay in Singapore without losing parts of herself? And what would it mean to belong somewhere not because she had to—but because her heart asked her to?
It was easier to bury those questions beneath routine. To focus on report deadlines, on what to cook for dinner, on which MRT line would be less crowded during peak hour. But when the rhythm slowed—even just a little—those questions rose to the surface like buoys from deep water.
And each one carried weight.
Would her mother understand if she stayed? Would the extended family whisper? Would she regret the things she left behind—old friends, old habits, old certainty?
There were days when she felt brave. Certain. And others when she feared she was simply pretending to be strong because no one had given her permission to falter.
The thought that scared her most wasn’t leaving.
It was staying—and still not feeling sure.
But when she looked at Rafiq, at the way his presence steadied her even in silence, she wondered if certainty could be something they built—not something she had to arrive with on her own.
—
Days passed. She tried to shake the weight off, but it clung—soft, silent.
Rafiq noticed. Of course he did.
One night, while walking her home, he asked, “You’ve been quiet lately.”
Meilin hesitated. Then, “I’m just… thinking about time.”
A pause.
He didn’t press.
—
The truth came out a few days later. They were seated on a bench outside the office after work, their laptops packed away, the sky warm with golden hour light.
“My contract’s ending soon,” Meilin said.
Rafiq turned toward her, quiet but attentive.
“They might renew,” she continued. “But nothing is confirmed. I haven’t told anyone at work yet. And I don’t know what I want them to say.”
Rafiq let her speak.
“I keep thinking—if I go back to Jakarta, will I be picking up where I left off? Or just undoing everything I’ve grown into here? But staying…” she paused. “Staying comes with its own kind of fear. Of not fitting in. Of not belonging fully. Of losing parts of myself that I haven’t even finished understanding.”
He nodded gently. “It makes sense to be scared.”
“I want to be here. With you. But I also want to feel like I’m not abandoning something else. Or disappointing people who still don’t fully understand why I’m learning about Islam, why I chose you, why I’m building something so different from what they expected.”
There was a quiet moment between them, layered in all the things she hadn’t said aloud before.
Then Rafiq asked softly: “Do you want to stay?”
He didn’t ask because he needed her to decide right then. He asked because he had been holding the same uncertainty in his chest for weeks. Wondering if he was being selfish for hoping she’d stay. If loving someone meant letting them leave when they had to.
In the quiet moments they shared—over lunch trays, after prayers, in the in-between hours—he’d found himself imagining a life with her not as a visitor in it, but as something whole.
He knew the looks they might get. The questions. He had asked himself those same questions, too. About culture. About faith. About the language of forever.
But in all that wondering, one thing stayed clear: the way Meilin made everything quieter. The way her voice settled into the corners of his life like something he didn’t know he needed until it was there.
He didn’t want her to stay for him. But he wanted to be the reason she could.
He didn’t speak for a moment. Then: “Do you want to stay?”
“I think I do.”
“Then that’s enough for now.”
—
The idea came to him in pieces.
Not as a grand gesture. Just as a quiet certainty. He didn’t want her to stay because of him. But if she was already choosing to… then maybe he could show her what he had long known:
She belonged.
He hesitated before telling anyone. But once the words were out—I’m planning to propose—they spread quickly.
Jas blinked. “Wait… seriously?”
Adi leaned back. “I mean, yeah, that tracks.”
Some of their colleagues already suspected. Others were caught off guard. But once it was out in the open, something shifted. Someone offered to bring fairy lights. Another volunteered to handle the music. Adi pulled out folders of archived photos from past events, already curating.
The team buzzed with quiet excitement. It wasn’t just support—it was investment. They knew this story, had watched it unfold from shared desks and quiet glances in meeting rooms. And now, they were helping it become something solid.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy. But it was full of heart.
He bought the ring with hands that trembled more than expected. But when he held it, he smiled.
—
Meilin thought it was a regular team lunch. She walked into the pantry expecting nasi lemak and paper plates.
Instead, fairy lights. A string of printed photos. A soft song playing in the background.
The slideshow began—snippets of shared workdays, rehearsal snapshots, the grainy photo of their duet performance. Laughter echoed. Someone handed her a tissue.
Then Rafiq stepped forward. Not in a suit. Just himself—plain shirt, slightly nervous eyes, but everything in him certain.
The chatter quieted. A stillness settled.
He looked at Meilin, and for a moment, no one else existed.
“If staying feels uncertain,” he said, voice low but sure, “maybe we can build certainty together. Not by solving everything. Just by choosing each other. Every day.”
He knelt—not for the spectacle, but because the moment asked for reverence.
The box opened to a simple gold band nestled in velvet.
Meilin’s breath caught. Her hands trembled slightly.
She didn’t cry—but her voice wavered.
“This isn’t just about staying in Singapore,” she whispered. “It’s about staying with you.”
Her yes came quietly. But it rang clear.
Applause rose around them, gentle and bright.
Rafiq stood, slipping the ring onto her finger. Their fingers lingered—no dramatic kiss, just a quiet forehead-to-forehead moment, both of them smiling, both of them finally home.
Then the crowd subtly parted. Meilin’s mother stepped forward, eyes glistening. Meilin met her gaze—and in that instant, every unspoken fear, every hesitation, folded inward as they embraced. Her mother held her tightly, murmuring against her ear, “You’ve always known your heart. I’m proud of you for following it.”
Meilin couldn’t speak. She could only nod, holding on like she didn’t want to let go.
A moment later, another set of arms wrapped gently around her from the side.
Rafiq’s mother.
She said nothing at first—just held her.
When they stepped back, she looked Meilin straight in the eye and said, “You are a brave woman. And you’ve chosen this with open eyes. I see that. I respect that.”
Meilin felt herself exhale. It wasn’t loud. But it felt like the last wall had quietly come down.
Then something unexpected—beautiful—happened.
Both mothers stepped forward again, one from each side. Meilin was caught in the middle as they enveloped her—one arm from her mother, one from Rafiq’s. It wasn’t rehearsed. Just instinctive. A gesture that said, without words, we see you.
In their arms, Meilin felt years of distance collapse—the weight of tradition, the ache of uncertainty, the fear of not being enough. Her mother’s touch was familiar, grounding. Rafiq’s mother’s embrace was new, but carried its own kind of warmth. Acceptance. Respect.
She closed her eyes and let herself lean into both. And for a fleeting moment, she wasn’t straddling two worlds.
She was held.
By both.
—
That night, she wrote:
Some questions don’t need to be answered right away. But some… deserve to be asked with both hands open.