Chapter 3 - Boundaries and Quiet Shifts

Chapter 3: Boundaries and Quiet Shifts

The next week passed with the gentleness of a late afternoon breeze—soft, steady, but never still. The moments between Meilin and Rafiq became more frequent, but never planned. A shared lift. A passing nod at the copier. A conversation that lingered too long by the pantry door.

It was subtle. Enough to be dismissed by anyone watching.

But not by them.

Rafiq felt it most in the quiet—when she laughed at something he said and then looked away too quickly, or when her hand brushed his as they reached for the same mug. There was nothing intentional about it. That, he thought, was what made it dangerous.

Because it felt natural.

And the more natural it felt, the harder it became to ignore.

He told himself he was being careful. That they weren’t breaking any rules. But when a colleague nudged him with an elbow and grinned, “Eh, that admin girl quite close to you ah?”—his smile faltered.

He laughed it off, but it stuck.

It rattled him more than he expected—not because it was untrue, but because it had been said out loud. Spoken like a fact, without hesitation. As if everyone else had already filled in the blanks he hadn’t yet dared to write.

And just a few steps away, near the pantry fridge, Meilin had overheard part of it.

She didn’t turn. Didn’t react. But later, when he caught her glance across the office, there was something quieter in her smile. A shadow of caution. She said nothing, and he didn’t bring it up. But the moment stayed between them—unspoken, but undeniable.

The next time they saw each other—in the pantry, standing shoulder to shoulder at the coffee machine—something was different.

Rafiq tried to speak, but the words caught somewhere in his throat. Meilin didn’t seem cold, but there was a gentleness in her distance, as if she was trying not to cross a line that had been redrawn without warning.

Their conversation was polite. Measured. Safe.

And yet, both of them felt the absence of the ease they’d built. The space that used to hold their laughter, their glances, now carried a quiet awareness of how visible they had become.

Rafiq wanted to say, I didn’t mean for it to change.

Meilin wanted to ask, Are you pulling away, or protecting me?

But neither spoke. Not then.

And so the silence between them stretched—not empty, but filled with questions neither of them were ready to voice.

The comment wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even wrong. But it pulled him out of the space they had so delicately built. It reminded him of the other world—the one outside their hallway chats and musical voice notes. The world where questions would be asked. Assumptions made. Lines drawn.

He didn’t tell Meilin about it.

But she sensed the shift.

They still talked. Still shared playlists and inside jokes. But something had changed, and not in any obvious way.

Rafiq felt it every time someone looked too long when he stood near her. He began to wonder how many eyes were watching, how many conclusions were being drawn before he even understood what this was himself. It wasn’t just workplace gossip he feared—it was the weight of expectations.

He had grown up in a world where things were clearly defined. Faith, family, the quiet but ever-present notion of who would make a “suitable” partner. No one in his family had ever said it aloud, but he knew: marry a Muslim, someone who understood the customs, who could slot into the world they had built without disruption.

And yet… here he was. Sharing music with someone who prayed differently. Who was older. Whose future in this country was uncertain.

It shouldn’t have felt this right. But it did.

And that made it harder.

Because in the quiet moments after, when he was alone—on the bus, in the lift, brushing his teeth—Rafiq found himself thinking about the long-term. Not in a daydreaming way, but in a conflicted, heart-versus-duty kind of way. Could he really bring someone like Meilin home to his family?

Would they accept her gentle nature, her quiet laughter, her soft voice in a different tongue when she prayed? Or would they only see the lines she didn’t cross—faith, age, background? Would they understand that it wasn’t about compromise but about connection?

And deeper still: could he ask that of her? Could he let something blossom knowing it might break her in places she had already spent years protecting?

These were the questions that sat with him—not loudly, but persistently. The kind that don’t demand answers, only honesty.

Meanwhile, Meilin noticed the quiet pullback. The way his smile flickered when someone else was nearby. She didn’t blame him. She understood it far too well.

She had loved once before—back in Jakarta. A quiet, gentle man who made promises he wasn’t ready to keep. When the relationship ended, it hadn’t been with anger, but with silence. A slow fade, until there was nothing left to return to.

Since then, she had built her life with caution. Came to Singapore on contract. Worked hard. Kept her heart folded away like a fragile note. She didn’t trust easily. She didn’t mistake attention for care.

And yet, there were nights she caught herself staring at her phone, rereading a message from Rafiq not because of what he said, but because of how it made her feel—seen, heard, acknowledged without expectation. That kind of attention had been rare in her life.

She remembered how lonely it had felt moving to a new country. How she told herself not to form attachments that couldn’t last. She had accepted transience as part of her reality—projects ending, colleagues leaving, rental agreements changing hands. And yet, Rafiq remained. Constant. Unassuming. Close, but never too close.

That, perhaps, was what made him dangerous too.

Because he made her want to stay.

But Rafiq’s presence had made her wonder.

And now, the hesitation between them felt like a familiar echo.

She noticed, too, how often she started second-guessing her own presence—at lunch, in the lift, in his corner of the floor.

And then one evening, as they walked to the MRT under a soft grey sky, the silence stretched longer than usual. Not strained—just heavy with things neither of them had yet put into words.

It was Meilin who finally spoke, her voice low. “I used to sing a lot. Back home.”

Rafiq glanced at her, surprised by the softness in her tone. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Church choir. Weddings. Sometimes just in the kitchen, when no one was home. But I stopped after Jakarta. After… things ended.”

He didn’t press, but she went on.

“There was someone. Kind, thoughtful. But in the end, I think we both wanted different things. Or maybe he just couldn’t see a life with me in it. I stopped singing after that. It felt like my voice belonged to a version of me I couldn’t go back to.”

Rafiq stayed quiet for a few paces. Then said, “I stopped too.”

She looked at him, curious.

“Not because of heartbreak. Just… life. Work. Faith. Expectations. It got harder to find places where I could be honest. Where I didn’t feel like I had to explain why music still mattered.”

Meilin nodded, the rhythm of their steps steady beneath the fading light.

“And now?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Now, for the first time in a long time… I feel like I’m being heard. Not just as a voice. But as a person.”

She didn’t answer right away. But the way her eyes shimmered in the evening light said enough.

“I don’t want to make things complicated for you,” she said quietly, not looking at him.

“You’re not,” he said quickly.

But she didn’t believe it. Not completely.

She slowed her steps. “Would it be easier if we just… stayed colleagues?”

Rafiq stopped walking.

He looked at her for a long moment, the noise of the world dimming.

“Probably,” he admitted.

Meilin nodded, almost to herself.

Then he added, more softly, “But I wouldn’t want that.”

And in that pause—before the train came, before either of them moved—something in the air shifted again.

Not louder.

But deeper.

They didn’t say goodbye. But they didn’t need to.

Not when the silence between them was already starting to sound like something more.