Chapter 9 - Things We Carry Home

Chapter 9: Things We Carry Home

The invitation came gently, like most things between them.

“You don’t have to say yes,” Rafiq had said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But my sister’s cooking on Sunday. Just us. I… I told her about you. Only if you’re comfortable.”

Meilin had smiled, small but warm. “I’d like that.”

Sunday came with overcast skies and the hush of weekend traffic. Meilin wore a soft blue blouse and loose linen pants, comfortable but presentable. Still, she found herself checking the mirror one last time, smoothing her hair even though there wasn’t a strand out of place.

Rafiq met her at the MRT station. He was wearing a pale green shirt that brought out the gentleness in his eyes, and when he spotted her approaching, his smile softened as if something in him had been holding its breath.

They exchanged no greetings, just a mutual nod and a shared pace as they began the walk to his sister’s flat.

The route took them through quiet HDB blocks shaded by rain trees, the air still damp from a passing drizzle. A stray cat darted across their path; Meilin watched it with a soft smile. Rafiq noticed.

“You always look like you’re listening to the street,” he said after a few minutes.

Meilin blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You pause,” he replied. “At traffic lights. In doorways. Like you’re waiting to hear what the place has to say.”

She looked down, shy but warmed. “Maybe I am.”

Their conversation fell into step with the rhythm of their walk—unhurried, observational, full of glances and half-smiles. The silence between them was never empty; it was steeped in awareness.

She noticed the way he adjusted his stride to match hers. He noticed the way she walked slightly slower when lost in thought.

By the time they reached the lift lobby of the block, their hands hadn’t touched, but the air between them felt shared. Familiar. Like the beginning of something tender.

Their silence had long since become its own kind of language.

His sister, Nur, welcomed her at the door with a hug that felt neither forced nor overly familiar—just genuine.

“I’ve heard so much,” she said with a knowing smile. “You’re even prettier in person. Come, makan is almost ready.”

The afternoon passed in soft conversation, laughter over sambal that was “a bit too brave,” and stories of Rafiq’s childhood that made him groan into his hands. Nur didn’t ask probing questions. She didn’t hover or make a fuss. But she noticed things—the way Meilin looked at Rafiq when he wasn’t watching, the way her laughter seemed to soften him, draw him out. She noticed how Rafiq, who had always been a little too careful, a little too guarded, seemed lighter with Meilin in the room.

As she refilled their drinks and passed plates across the table, she watched the ease between them—the way their silences weren’t strained, the way their glances carried a conversation all on their own.

Later, as she stood at the stove warming tea, she thought of the Rafiq she grew up with—the boy who took everything to heart, who loved deeply but rarely let anyone in. And now here he was, leaning back in his chair, fingers brushing Meilin’s as she passed him a bowl, smiling like something quiet inside him had finally found rest.

She simply watched the two of them like someone seeing a long-overdue answer fall into place.

Meilin helped clear the table. As she rinsed dishes in the sink, she caught a glimpse of herself in the kitchen window—hands wet, sleeves rolled up, laughter still warming her face. For a moment, she saw something she hadn’t realized she’d been searching for: herself, in someone else’s home, not as a guest—but as someone who belonged.

Nur joined her after a while, handing over a wet plate without a word. They worked side by side for a few minutes, the clink of crockery and gentle rush of water the only sounds between them.

Then Nur leaned against the counter, drying her hands with a small towel. “You’re good for him, you know,” she said lightly, but not without weight.

Meilin looked up, surprised. “I don’t know if I’m doing anything special.”

“You don’t need to,” Nur replied. “He’s always been… careful. Thoughtful. But with you, it’s like he doesn’t have to think so hard about being himself.”

Meilin was quiet, the sponge still in her hand.

“I worry sometimes,” she said softly. “That we’re too different. That I won’t know how to fit into all of this.”

Nur smiled, reaching out to rest a hand briefly on Meilin’s wrist. “The fact that you’re thinking about that? Means more than you know. We don’t need someone the same. Just someone kind.”

Meilin looked down, blinking once.

Nur gave a soft laugh. “Besides, you handled the sambal like a champ. That’s practically a rite of passage.”

Meilin laughed too, and the tension eased. They returned to the dishes, shoulder to shoulder.

But now, the silence between them felt like something shared.

—

Later that night, in the quiet of her apartment, Meilin reheated leftovers and scrolled through her messages. One from her mother had arrived an hour earlier—a photo of her old room back in Jakarta, newly repainted, captioned simply: Masih kosong. Still empty.

She stared at it longer than she expected.

The room looked smaller than she remembered. The peach-colored walls were freshly coated, the bed newly made, the books on the shelf perfectly aligned—just as she had left them, only neater. Like a version of her life paused in time.

She imagined her mother standing in the doorway after repainting it, taking the photo with one hand, phone tilted slightly. Had she hesitated before sending it? Had she whispered a prayer before hitting send?

Still empty.

Two words that carried more than space. They carried memory. Expectation. Hope. And love, disguised in a mother’s quiet way of reaching out.

Meilin pressed the phone closer to her chest. For a second, she was eighteen again—leaving Jakarta with a suitcase and a goodbye hug that lingered. She thought of her mother’s hands, always moving: cleaning, folding, cooking. Never idle. Always building a space for her to return to.

But the girl who left had changed. She had grown roots in different soil. And though she missed her mother—missed the scent of home, the cadence of familiar prayers murmured under breath—she no longer felt suspended between two worlds.

Something was anchoring her here now. Slowly, gently.

The room was waiting.

But she wasn’t sure she still was.

And for the first time, the idea of not going back didn’t feel like a betrayal.

It felt like the start of something she could choose.

Her lease was ending in two months. Her work contract not long after. These were facts. But they no longer felt like certainty. They felt like questions.

—

A week passed. On a humid evening, after a long walk through the quiet backstreets of Bukit Merah, they found a shaded bench beneath a rain tree.

Their footsteps had traced a slow, wandering path—past old kopi stalls, shuttered provision shops, low stone walls stained with moss and memory. The kind of walk that didn’t chase a destination, only presence. They talked in pockets—about a funny conversation Rafiq had with a client, about a cat Meilin always passed on her way to work that had finally let her pet it.

But mostly, they were quiet. The air held a soft weight, humid and fragrant with the ghost of afternoon rain. Everything felt suspended, as if the world was leaning in just slightly, waiting for something unspoken.

Rafiq occasionally glanced at her—not out of nervousness, but something closer to reverence. There was something grounding about walking beside her. About the sound of her sandals against pavement. About how she never rushed to fill silence, but let it breathe beside her.

Meilin, too, felt the shift—not a tug, but a leaning. As though her heart was tilting gently in his direction, asking, Could I stay here, if only a little longer?

They found the bench, shaded and familiar. Rafiq leaned back, legs stretched, gaze on the sky just beginning to shift into dusk.

“Do you think about going back?” he asked.

Meilin was quiet for a moment. The question didn’t surprise her—it had lived at the edge of her own mind for weeks now.

“Sometimes,” she said. Her voice was soft, but steady. “When I miss home, or when the workdays feel too long. When my mum sends me messages like that one.” She glanced at him, the side of her face illuminated by the dusky light. “But more often, I wonder what staying would look like. Not just staying in Singapore—but staying… here.”

She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t have to.

Rafiq turned toward her slightly, the bench creaking under the shift of weight.

“I don’t want to hold you here,” he said gently. “But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope you’d stay.”

She gave a quiet smile. “You don’t hold me. You make it easier to want to.”

They sat in silence again, but this one felt different—warmer. Like a shared inhale. Like a promise without pressure.

A breeze stirred through the branches above, brushing their shoulders like a quiet blessing.

He didn’t reach for her hand. She didn’t lean in.

But both of them knew—something had quietly been named.

—

That night, when Meilin unpacked her bag, she took the notebook from its usual place on her bedside table.

She held it for a moment in both hands, thumb brushing over the soft navy cover. There were no new entries, no fresh ink. Just the weight of it—of everything it had come to mean.

She thought about the bench under the rain tree. The quiet weight of Rafiq’s question. The way he hadn’t tried to sway her, only offered his presence. And how her own heart had answered before her voice had.

The notebook wasn’t just something Rafiq had given her. It was something that had grown between them—page by page, glance by glance, wordless moment by wordless moment.

She slipped it gently into her work bag, between her planner and her water bottle.

A small, silent promise.

Not to decide everything tonight.

But to carry this with her. Forward.

Some decisions begin not with certainty, but with the quiet act of making space.