Chapter 2 - Lunchboxes and Interludes

Chapter 2: Lunchboxes and Interludes

The performance was over, but Rafiq still carried the echo of her voice.

That night played back in his head more times than he cared to admit.

Under the soft stage lights and the hum of the crowd, he had stood beside Meilin, trying to keep his breathing steady. She looked composed, as always, but he could tell—her hands were clasped tighter than usual, and her gaze flicked downward every few seconds.

Then the music began.

From the first note, it no longer felt like a company performance. Not for him.

He sang the opening verse, watching her out of the corner of his eye. And when her voice joined his—gentle, full, sincere—something in him stilled. Not because of nerves, but because of how closely it felt like… a conversation. One sung in glances, in breath, in the pauses between lyrics.

He looked at her often, more than necessary. Not to cue her, not for coordination, but because he couldn’t help it. Her voice wrapped around the words like silk, grounding him even as his own voice trembled from the weight of unspoken things.

When their eyes met during the chorus, she held his gaze just a second longer than usual. It startled him. Not in a jarring way, but like something unguarded had been exchanged. As if both had said something deeply personal, yet no one else heard.

The audience clapped when the final note faded, but to Rafiq, the applause sounded distant.

He wasn’t sure what they had just done on that stage.

But it hadn’t felt like a performance.

It had felt like a beginning.

In the days that followed the D&D event, the office returned to its usual rhythm—meetings, reports, coffee runs, and muted chatter over Slack. Yet something had shifted, quietly, at least for him. The rehearsal room was empty now, but her presence lingered in his memory: the way she looked when she sang, the curve of her smile when she thought no one was watching.

He hadn’t spoken to her since the performance night. Just a brief smile across the hallway, a soft nod in the pantry. It was back to being strangers—but with the strange, electric undertone of something unspoken.

He missed the rehearsals more than he expected.

It wasn’t just the music. It was the rhythm of her voice beside his. The way silence with her felt different—comfortable, almost magnetic.

One afternoon, after a particularly long meeting, Rafiq walked into the pantry for a break. The office was quieter than usual, half the team out at client sites. He opened the fridge, pulled out his lunchbox, and turned to find Meilin already at the table, poking at a convenience store sandwich.

Their eyes met. She gave him that same gentle smile.

“Forgot your lunch?” he asked, holding up his two-tier bento with a sheepish grin.

Meilin laughed softly. “Didn’t have time this morning. This was a panic buy.”

He hesitated, then walked over.

“Want to share?”

She looked at him, surprised. “Are you sure?”

“It’s either that or I overeat and fall asleep by 3,” he joked, setting the box between them.

They ate in a quiet corner of the pantry. It was the first time they’d sat together outside rehearsal, and for a while, they didn’t say much—just chewed, nodded, passed tissues. But then, slowly, conversation found its way in.

They talked about the leftover adrenaline from performing. About the awkward small talk after the applause. About how Rafiq nearly forgot the second verse and how Meilin had subtly nudged his arm at just the right moment.

“I thought you were more confident than that,” she teased.

“I was too busy trying not to stare,” he replied before realizing what he’d said.

She blinked.

And then, she smiled.

Not a polite smile. A real one. Soft and almost amused.

“Good recovery,” she said, and popped the last piece of omelette into her mouth.

After that, something shifted again. They didn’t become close overnight, but the distance between them began to shrink—just a little.

Rafiq found himself timing his coffee breaks near hers. Meilin started sending him links to old songs they could have sung. They began talking about Jakarta and Singapore, about their families, about how both of them had stopped singing for a while before this.

And under all of it, the question neither had asked still hovered:

Now that the music had stopped—what was left behind?

Something, Rafiq hoped.

Maybe something worth continuing.

—

It was during one of those afternoons—pantry quiet, the air heavy with leftover curry puff scent—that Meilin asked him, almost offhandedly, “Do you still sing? Outside of all this?”

Rafiq looked up from his half-empty cup of kopi. “Not really. Used to, in uni. And before that, mosque stuff. Youth band. But life got busy.”

Meilin stirred her tea. “Same. It used to be a part of me. Now it feels like something I borrow when no one’s looking.”

There was a pause.

He didn’t fill it.

Instead, he let her words settle, like steam from her cup. It struck him how often she did this—offered something small, quiet, but heavy. Like she was testing if he’d notice.

“I don’t think you borrow it,” he said. “I think it lives in you. Just waiting to be heard.”

Meilin looked at him then, fully. Her eyes searching, curious, maybe a little uncertain. And just as quickly, she blinked, looked down again.

But Rafiq felt it—that subtle shift. The kind that didn’t make a sound, but changed the shape of the room.

Later that week, she sent him a voice note. Just a snippet of a melody, hummed softly, no words.

He played it three times.

Didn’t reply right away.

But the next day, he sent her a voice clip of his own—barely a minute long, just guitar chords and a whisper of harmony. No lyrics. No need.

The conversation continued, even without words.

And with each passing day, Rafiq began to think—maybe the music hadn’t stopped after all.

Maybe it had just changed form.

—

For Meilin, the performance had felt like standing on a ledge and discovering, to her surprise, that she could still fly.

The days after were a blur—emails, filing, coordination—but underneath it all was a steady, quiet hum. The memory of that night. The music. The look in Rafiq’s eyes.

During the performance, she had tried not to think too much. She focused on the lyrics, on her breathing, on keeping her hands from shaking. But when Rafiq began singing beside her, steady and sincere, she felt something loosen.

It hadn’t felt like an audience was watching. It hadn’t even felt like performing.

It felt like letting someone in.

She remembered the way he looked at her—like she wasn’t just part of a duet, but the center of the song. His eyes didn’t demand anything. They simply stayed with her, like a hand on her shoulder, grounding and present. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel the need to shrink.

When she sang the chorus, she let herself look back at him. Just once. But that glance stayed with her.

There was a gentleness in the way he watched her that unnerved her more than any bold flirtation would have. She was used to admiration that faded when she spoke, interest that wilted when she didn’t play along. But this—this felt different. As if he had heard something in her voice that wasn’t part of the melody.

After the applause faded, after the thank-yous and plastic cups of punch, she had gone home and sat in the quiet of her room for a long while. She replayed the duet in her mind, each harmony, each glance, each breath. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but it made her feel—awake. Exposed. Not in a bad way, but in a way that reminded her of who she used to be, before life asked her to be smaller.

So when Rafiq offered to share his lunch, she didn’t hesitate as much as she thought she would.

And when he sent her that quiet guitar clip, she smiled to herself—not just because of the melody, but because of what it meant.

He had heard her.

And maybe… she was ready to be heard again.

She began to notice more.

The way Rafiq lingered in conversation a few seconds longer than necessary. How his laugh came a little softer around her, like it was meant only for that space between them. The way his fingers always tapped on something—mugs, tabletops, his phone case—as if music was constantly alive in him.

But what surprised her most was how seen she felt.

He remembered the small things. Her preference for ginger tea over green. The way she avoided eye contact when she was overwhelmed. That she hummed under her breath when reviewing spreadsheets.

She wasn’t used to being remembered. Especially not in the little ways.

One morning, she arrived at her desk to find a neatly folded Post-it stuck to her monitor. Inside was a lyric fragment she had mentioned offhand the week before, along with a question scrawled in his quick, messy handwriting:

Still think this song is too sentimental?
—R.

She smiled without realizing it. And she didn’t reply. Not yet. But when she passed him later in the corridor, she met his gaze fully, just long enough for him to notice.

Meilin didn’t know what would come of this—whatever this was. But for now, she let herself stay in the moment.

Not in the past, where things had gone unsaid.

Not in the future, where doubt often waited.

Just here. Where the music still lingered.

—

That evening, the rain began quietly—just a whisper against the office windows, like a song without words.

Meilin hadn’t brought an umbrella. She hadn’t checked the forecast. She stood beneath the MRT station’s overhang, watching the soft blur of water dance across the tiles, half-lost in thought.

The train had just pulled away. She’d missed it by seconds.

She didn’t mind.

A moment later, she heard footsteps and turned. Rafiq.

He looked surprised to see her, but not unhappy. His jacket was damp at the shoulders, his messenger bag slightly askew.

“No umbrella?” he asked, holding up his own with a crooked grin.

Meilin shook her head. “Guess we’re both stubborn.”

He stepped closer, hesitated, then angled his umbrella slightly to cover her too. It was a small gesture, but she felt it like a warmth at the edge of her chest.

“Long day?” he asked.

“Just… full,” she said, not sure how else to describe it.

They stood there for a while, shoulder to shoulder, watching the tracks glisten.

Neither rushed to fill the silence.

Eventually, she spoke, voice low. “Do you ever feel like something’s changing, but you don’t know what to call it yet?”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then nodded. “Yeah. Every time I’m around you.”

The train approached, headlights blooming through the rain.

And in the moment before it arrived, Meilin looked up at him, really looked—and smiled. Not shy. Not uncertain. But open.

Like maybe, just maybe, she was ready to see where this could go.

They didn’t sit together on the train, not that evening. The carriage was packed, and the silence between them had said enough. But as the doors slid open at her stop, she turned to him once more.

“Thanks,” she said softly, with no specific reason attached to the word.

Rafiq nodded. “Anytime.”

And she believed him.

Meilin stepped out, the rain now a whisper above the station roof. As the train pulled away, she didn’t look back. But the warmth stayed.

Later that night, she found herself replaying his voice note again—not for the melody this time, but for the feeling it carried.

Something had begun. Slowly, quietly. Like a song still finding its shape.

And in the hush that followed, she didn’t feel alone.

Not anymore.