Chapter 5 - A Kind of Closeness

Chapter 5: A Kind of Closeness

The following days fell into a rhythm again—not quite the same as before, but something that resembled ease.

Rafiq started to notice the little things. It wasn’t just the mug anymore. It was how her pen would end up beside his notepad during shared meetings, even though she always clipped it back to her folder. It was the way she lingered just a second longer at the pantry door when he walked in, like she was waiting to see if he’d say something first.

Sometimes, she’d drop off a snack at his desk with a note: Saw this and thought of you — no nuts, promise. He never told her he was mildly allergic. But somehow, she knew.

She began waiting for him after meetings under the casual pretense of going the same way. And he didn’t question it. He didn’t want to.

He began to realize these weren’t just habits. They were choices.

And choices, to Rafiq, always meant something.

He’d watch her out of the corner of his eye and think about how quiet her care was—never loud, never demanding. She didn’t ask for anything in return. But in those small gestures, he felt more seen than in a dozen conversations with people who tried too hard.

Sometimes, he wondered if she even knew what she was doing. Other times, he thought: of course she does.

Because that’s how she was—careful, thoughtful, deliberate.

And slowly, without either of them saying it, she had carved out a space in his day. A soft, quiet space that only she filled.

Their moments were still quiet, still unspoken—but something in them had shifted. Not a declaration. Just a willingness to be near each other, even in silence.

One afternoon, Rafiq passed a bookstore on his way home. It was the kind of place he usually ignored—small, dim, squeezed between a laundry shop and a noodle stall. But that day, something about the display caught his eye. Blank journals stacked in a quiet pyramid, beside a sign that read: Write something only you will understand.

He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, the weight of the week pressing against him in ways he hadn’t named yet. There were things he wanted to say to her. Not grand things. Just small, ordinary things that somehow felt too intimate for text.

Like how her laugh stayed with him on the train ride home. Or how he kept trying to remember her favorite kind of tea.

He walked in.

The air smelled of paper and ink, and the quietness inside felt sacred. He browsed without a goal, letting his fingers trail over hardcovers and linen-bound spines. And then he saw it—a simple, stitched notebook with a navy blue cover, unlined pages, and a small embossed detail on the corner: a single star.

He picked it up without hesitation. It wasn’t expensive. It wasn’t even particularly beautiful.

But it felt like a space he could carry her in.

He held the notebook in his hands for a long while before bringing it to the counter. On the way home, he kept it close in his bag, fingers brushing against the corner of the cover as if it were something fragile. Sacred.

On the train, he stared out the window, wondering what it meant to feel something growing before it had a name. Meilin had become part of his landscape—not loud or dramatic, but consistent, present, like sunlight coming through the same window every morning.

And he wanted a place for that feeling to live. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere honest.

He wondered if she ever kept a notebook too. If she ever jotted down things she couldn’t say, things too tender for conversation. He wondered what she’d write about him—if anything.

That night, in the quiet of his room, he flipped it open and wrote a single line:
Some silences say more than speaking ever could.

It became a habit. A place to hold all the thoughts he couldn’t say aloud yet—snippets of lyrics, questions he wasn’t ready to ask her, lines of poems she might have liked.

—

Sunday came with stillness.

Meilin spent the morning with soft music playing from an old speaker, her windows cracked open to the wind. The scent of early sunlight filtered through, warm on her skin. She moved slowly—folding clothes, watering her plants, letting the quiet stretch between tasks like a soft thread of peace she didn’t want to tug on.

She thought about the week. About how Rafiq always seemed to notice when she lingered near his desk or looked a little more tired than usual. She thought about how she didn’t need to explain herself with him, how she could just exist and still be seen.

It scared her sometimes—how easily he fit into the quiet spaces of her day.

When she left her mug beside his in the pantry, it wasn’t absentminded. When she brought those snacks, it wasn’t convenience. Each act was deliberate. But she never asked for acknowledgement. That wasn’t what she needed.

What she needed… was to give.

Because it was safer that way. Because giving didn’t ask for anything in return. And because she knew, deep down, she was afraid of being wanted too much—of failing to be enough.

But Rafiq never asked for more than she could give.

Her phone buzzed on the table. A voice note. From Rafiq.

She pressed play.

A short guitar riff, familiar and new. He didn’t say anything, just played. She closed her eyes and let it wash over her.

She played it again. And again.

Not because it was perfect.

But because it felt like him.

—

On Wednesday, they ended up working late again. Not by arrangement—just the kind of overlap that no longer felt accidental.

When they packed up, Meilin paused.

“Want to grab something nearby?” she asked.

Rafiq looked up, surprised. Then smiled. “Yeah. Okay.”

They walked to the hawker centre across the road—unspoken understanding in each step.

They ordered separate dishes, sat at a tucked-away corner, and talked between mouthfuls. The table between them was stained with old water rings and the hum of fans above filled the spaces between their words.

Meilin picked at her food with gentle movements, stealing glances between bites. Rafiq, ever the more expressive one, told a story about trying to cook nasi lemak for his siblings when he was sixteen and nearly setting off the smoke detector. She laughed—really laughed—and for a moment, they forgot the roles they played outside this little corner.

The night air was balmy, tinged with the scent of garlic and charred wok. She let herself lean into it. Into him. Into the familiarity that didn’t yet ask for anything more.

Their conversation drifted into memories. Meilin told him about the tiny kitchen in her childhood home in Jakarta—how her mother never followed a recipe, only instinct. “She used to say measuring spoons are for baking, not for love,” she said, eyes crinkling at the corners. Her house, she added, always smelled like sesame oil and shallots on Sundays.

Rafiq grinned, stirring the ice in his drink. “My dad’s sambal could clear the whole neighbourhood. He swore it tasted better if he sang while making it. Old P. Ramlee songs, mostly. Loudly.”

She laughed again, covering her mouth briefly with the back of her hand.

Rafiq watched her, taking in the way her face softened when she spoke of home. He found himself sharing more than he expected—about his younger sister who always stole the crispy ikan bilis off everyone’s plates, about how his mother would scold him with one hand and sneak him an extra piece of ayam goreng with the other.

Then Meilin told him something quieter. “There was a balcony back home. Not big, just enough for two plastic chairs. I used to sit there when I was overwhelmed. Listen to the traffic. Watch the sky turn orange.” She paused. “I haven’t had a place like that since.”

Rafiq’s voice was softer now. “You’d like my grandfather’s kampung house. There’s a veranda with a swing. Feels like time stops there.”

Their words slowed. Became fewer. But each one landed gently, without pressure.

No one watched them. No one interrupted. The world allowed them this quiet evening.

And for the first time, Meilin laughed the way she used to during rehearsals—unguarded. Rafiq watched her, his smile not wide, but full.

As they walked back to the MRT, there was no need to say much.

“I like the way you say things that matter without trying to sound perfect,” he said as they reached the gate.

Meilin looked at him, caught off guard by the softness in his voice.

“I like the way you don’t try to fix the silence,” she replied.

They didn’t hug. They didn’t touch.

But when they parted, both walked away smiling.

Some silences aren’t empty.
Some carry the weight of everything still becoming true.

—

Rafiq

On the train ride home, Rafiq leaned his head against the window, watching the blur of lights outside as the city slipped past. He thought about the way she had smiled that night—soft, real, as though something inside her had unknotted just enough to let him in.

He hadn’t meant to say what he did, not exactly. The words had simply come. But her reply had stayed with him, nestled quietly in the center of his chest. I like the way you don’t try to fix the silence.

He didn’t know what they were yet. But he knew what they weren’t.

They weren’t fleeting.

He opened his notebook and wrote a line without thinking:
Some people don’t rush in. They unfold.

Meilin

Meilin sat by her window that night, knees drawn to her chest, a cup of tea growing cold in her hands. She replayed the conversation again—not out of doubt, but reverence.

The way Rafiq listened. Not to reply, not to fix, but to hold.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed that. Or how much she needed it.

She thought about how she used to speak carefully, always conscious of being too much or not enough. But with him, it felt different. Like every awkward pause was just part of a longer rhythm.

A quiet trust was forming between them. Not built on grand promises, but on presence. On shared memories. On the courage to sit with the unsaid.

She placed her mug down, pulled her cardigan tighter around her, and smiled into the quiet.

Some feelings don’t need to be named to be known.
Some stories begin long before the first page is turned.