Chapter 4 - The Line We Don’t Cross

Chapter 4: The Line We Don’t Cross

Work returned to its usual rhythms. Emails. Deadlines. Morning greetings passed in lifts and corridors. But between Rafiq and Meilin, something quiet had settled—like a note held too long at the end of a song, trembling in the air.

Not distance—at least not completely. But restraint. A deliberate softening of their steps around each other.

Rafiq felt it most in the moments he didn’t expect. When he reached for his coffee and found it already made, Meilin’s handwriting on the Post-it beside it: No sugar, right? Or when he saw her across the room, deep in conversation with someone else, and something inside him twisted—not with jealousy, but with longing. A longing to be able to claim what he knew wasn’t his to name.

For Meilin, it was the absence of what had once been natural. The quiet jokes, the late-night voice notes, the steady rhythm of their friendship. It was still there—but dimmed, like lights softened for the sake of propriety. She missed the ease between them. But more than that, she feared what would happen if that ease became something neither of them could step back from.

They still exchanged looks across the office, still shared small comments about songs or weekend plans. But there was a pause between them now. A hesitation neither of them acknowledged out loud.

The comment from the pantry had left its mark.

They were more careful now. Less laughter in public. Less lingering in hallways. Less risk of being seen too clearly by others who might not understand.

That restraint made every accidental moment feel amplified. A brush of hands over the same coffee mug. A passing glance in a team meeting. Silence that stretched just long enough to feel personal.

—

At the department lunch, they sat at opposite ends of the table.

It was a joint team event, a rare crossover between engineering and admin staff, meant to build rapport. The long table was dotted with bento sets and plastic cups of barley water. Conversation buzzed around them—light, harmless, easy to fade into.

Meilin listened to someone from marketing talk about weekend hiking spots. She nodded, smiled when appropriate, but her eyes drifted—always, eventually—toward him. Rafiq sat two seats away from the window, sunlight brushing the side of his face as he leaned in to speak with someone from logistics.

He laughed at a joke someone told. It was genuine. Easy. The kind of laugh that made people feel included. But when he glanced sideways and found her watching, his smile softened—just slightly. Not a performance. Just recognition.

The moment passed quickly, buried beneath the sound of chopsticks tapping on lids.

A colleague leaned over to Meilin midway through the meal. “Are you seeing anyone?” she asked casually, between bites of tofu.

Meilin blinked. The question wasn’t invasive. Just… unexpected. She hadn’t prepared for it. Not today.

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Laughed softly, brushing it off. “Not really.”

But her pause was too long.

And across the table, Rafiq looked up—just for a second, like he had heard something even from that far away. He didn’t speak. But when their eyes met again, the silence between them said enough.

—

Rafiq

He pushed his barley water aside, only half-listening to the conversation at his end of the table. His laughter came on cue, his expressions matched the rhythm of those around him—but part of him was somewhere else.

He had seen Meilin hesitate.

It wasn’t the words that unsettled him—it was the pause. The kind that only mattered if you were already paying too much attention. And he was.

Something about the way she answered—gentle, honest, but not closed off—reminded him of how careful she always was. How she rarely gave more than what was safe. And yet, he also saw the flicker in her eyes just after. As if a part of her wanted to give him more but couldn’t.

He hated how aware he was of her. Hated how much he noticed the way she reached for her drink, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear. And how a simple question from someone else could feel like a boundary.

He looked away, not because he didn’t want to look, but because he didn’t know what his face might give away.

—

Meilin

She stirred the ice in her drink long after it had stopped melting.

The question lingered in her chest, more than it should have. It wasn’t about the colleague who asked—it was about how easily her heart had faltered in the face of something so ordinary.

Not really.

The words had left her mouth with a practiced grace, but she had felt the wobble underneath them. And the pause—oh, the pause—felt louder in her own ears than the table chatter that surrounded her.

She wasn’t used to this. To someone seeing through her silences. And Rafiq… he always seemed to.

When she glanced up and caught his gaze, it felt like confession. And for a moment, she wanted to reach across the table, pull him into the safety of honesty, and say, I wanted to say something else. I just didn’t know how.

But she didn’t. Because she wasn’t sure where that path would lead. And once you step onto a bridge like that, you either cross it—or burn it.

So instead, she sipped her drink and offered a smile she wasn’t sure he believed.

In the quiet moments after the lunch, both of them drifted back into their separate teams, their desks, their roles. But their minds stayed tangled at that table.

Rafiq kept thinking about how effortless it had become to care. And how unfamiliar it felt to keep that care so tightly sealed. There was a longing in him—not just for her presence, but for the freedom to speak without consequence. To say, I see you differently now. And I don’t want to look away.

Meilin, meanwhile, found herself wondering if silence was its own kind of answer. She had spent so long protecting her heart that she didn’t know how to let someone approach it without fear. And yet, Rafiq never asked for her to open up. He only stayed. Gently. Consistently. As though he knew that forcing the door would only lock it tighter.

They were both dancing around something real, and neither of them dared call it by name.

—

That evening, as she packed up her desk, her phone buzzed with a message.

Rafiq: I saw you didn’t finish your drink. I would’ve grabbed something else if I’d known.

She smiled at the screen, even though the message meant nothing.

And yet… it didn’t feel like nothing.

—

They stayed late again, by coincidence. She was finalizing vendor forms; he was wrapping up a client design review. The office emptied slowly around them.

When she stepped into the lift lobby, he was already there—leaning against the wall, looking at his phone.

“Still here?” she asked.

He looked up, gave a quiet smile. “Guess we’re both stubborn.”

The lift arrived. They stepped in.

It was silent for a floor and a half.

Then, softly:

“My contract ends in two months,” Meilin said. “I haven’t decided if I’m staying.”

Rafiq turned to her. “Do you want to?”

She hesitated. “I’m not sure. I came here thinking it would be temporary. But then… some things make it harder to leave.”

He didn’t push. Just nodded slowly.

“I’ve been thinking about telling my mum,” he said after a moment. “About you.”

Her breath caught slightly. “You haven’t?”

“No,” he said. “Not yet. Not because I’m ashamed. But because I want to tell her the right way. With the right words.”

Meilin looked at him. Her voice was soft. “You don’t have to explain. I understand.”

Rafiq met her eyes, steady. “I don’t want you to understand. I want to change that.”

She held his gaze for a moment. Then looked away.

“We’re not there yet,” she said.

He nodded. “But I’m walking there.”

And somehow, those four words felt closer than a promise.