Properly
Chapter 8 – Properly
Singapore welcomed Aleem the way it always did–with heat and speed.
The moment he stepped out of the airport, humidity wrapped itself around him like a familiar inconvenience. The air smelled of rain that had not fallen yet, of fuel, of polished floors, of routine. People moved quickly, purposefully, as though the world might collapse if anyone lingered too long.
It should have felt grounding.
Instead, it felt like a contrast sharp enough to sting.
Sapa had been quiet.
Sapa had left room for breath.
For wondering.
For her.
In the taxi home, Aleem watched the city pass–glass towers, overhead bridges, roads lit by clean lines of streetlights. His phone sat in his hand, the screen glowing with Dasha’s last message.
Dasha: Hanoi is loud, but it has beautiful corners.
Aleem typed.
Aleem: Send me one.
A reply appeared almost immediately.
Dasha: I will. But first, did you eat?
Aleem stared at the message.
He smiled.
Because it was so simple.
So ordinary.
And yet it felt like intimacy.
Aleem: Not yet.
Aleem: You sound like you are managing my life already.
Dasha: Someone has to.
Dasha: You have father energy. I cannot leave you unsupervised.
Aleem laughed quietly, the sound swallowed by the taxi’s soft hum.
His life resumed.
Work on Monday.
Emails that demanded answers.
Meetings that pretended urgency.
Lunches eaten quickly.
The constant, familiar pressure of being useful.
But something had shifted beneath the surface.
Because now, threaded through the day, there was Dasha.
Sometimes she was a message that arrived while he was waiting for a lift.
Sometimes she was a photo–a narrow street lit by lanterns, a bowl of noodles steaming on a small plastic table, the blurred suggestion of rain on a café window.
Sometimes she was a voice note.
Her laughter. Her commentary. Her calm.
And every night, without negotiating it, they called.
They spoke through time zones like it was natural.
Aleem would sit by the window of his room, the city lights outside steady and bright.
Dasha would be in a hostel bed, or leaning against a hotel headboard, or sitting in a quiet corner of a café because she had found reliable Wi-Fi.
They did not always fill the call with dramatic declarations.
Often, they spoke about small things.
What she ate.
What he ate.
What the day felt like.
What the weather did.
But beneath the ordinary was the quiet knowing that they were choosing to keep the connection alive.
One evening, Dasha called from Chiang Mai.
Aleem could hear distant sounds–muffled voices, a scooter passing, the faint clink of dishes.
“You are outside,” he observed.
Dasha’s voice was warm. “I found a place that is quiet enough. The air is good here.”
Aleem leaned back against his chair. “Did you eat?”
Dasha laughed softly. “Now you are doing it.”
Aleem’s mouth tightened, amused. “It is a fair question.”
“It is,” Dasha agreed. “And yes, I ate.”
Aleem paused.
Then he said, “I miss you.”
Silence.
Not awkward.
Full.
Then Dasha replied, voice quieter than before.
“I miss you too,” she said.
Aleem swallowed.
He had told himself he would be careful.
He had told himself distance was uncertain.
But each time she said it back, each time she stayed on the line, each time she continued showing up, something inside him loosened.
He stopped bracing for disappearance.
He started believing in presence.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
The relationship deepened in the way real things often did–through repetition, through consistency, through small daily decisions that accumulated into something solid.
Aleem learned Dasha’s rhythms.
She did not like texting too much when she was travelling. She preferred voice notes and calls.
She liked to send photos of quiet corners rather than famous landmarks.
She teased him when he became too serious.
She asked questions that forced him to answer honestly.
And Aleem, in return, began to change without announcing it.
He stopped delaying replies.
He stopped editing his affection into polite neutrality.
He allowed himself to be seen.
Until one day, the connection demanded a test.
It happened on a Tuesday, during lunch.
Aleem had been in meetings since morning–one after another–his brain strained from switching between problem-solving and social performance.
He checked his phone and saw three messages from Dasha.
Dasha: Can I call tonight?
Dasha: I need to tell you something.
Dasha: It is important.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
Important.
His mind did what it always did when faced with uncertainty.
It reached for control.
For worst-case scenarios.
For anticipation that could shield him from surprise.
He typed.
Aleem: Is everything okay?
A few minutes passed.
No reply.
The silence felt longer than it was.
Aleem’s thoughts began to run.
Maybe she was sick.
Maybe she was leaving.
Maybe she had met someone else.
Maybe this had always been temporary and he had been foolish to hope.
He hated himself for the spiral.
He hated that fear still lived in him, waiting.
Another hour passed.
Still nothing.
His phone remained silent.
Aleem felt the old reflex rise–withdraw first.
Detach.
Protect.
Do not let yourself be the one who waits.
But then he remembered what he had promised.
When I feel afraid, I will tell you instead of disappearing.
He left the office, went down to the ground floor, and stood outside where the air was warmer and slightly damp.
He called her.
Dasha picked up on the second ring.
“Hello,” she said.
Relief hit Aleem so sharply he had to close his eyes.
“You disappeared,” he said.
Dasha’s voice softened. “I did not disappear. I was on a bus. There was no signal.”
Aleem exhaled, tension spilling out.
“I… assumed,” he admitted.
Dasha was quiet for a moment.
Then she asked, gently, “What did you assume?”
Aleem hesitated.
Old Aleem would have lied.
Old Aleem would have said it was fine.
He would have swallowed fear and called it maturity.
But he was trying.
So he spoke.
“I assumed you were leaving,” he said quietly. “Or that something had changed.”
Dasha did not sound angry.
But her voice grew firmer.
“Aleem,” she said, “you cannot punish yourself with stories every time the world is silent.”
Aleem swallowed.
“I know,” he replied. “But it happens.”
Dasha exhaled softly.
“Listen,” she said. “I wanted to call because I am coming to Singapore.”
Aleem froze.
“What?”
“I have a visa appointment next week,” Dasha continued. “And I found a work-related event in Singapore. It is not only for you. But you are the reason I decided to take it.”
Aleem’s heart lurched.
His throat tightened.
“You were going to tell me that,” he said, voice almost disbelieving.
“Yes,” Dasha replied. “That is why it is important.”
Aleem leaned back against the wall of the building, the city moving around him as if nothing had changed.
Yet everything had.
He closed his eyes.
A laugh escaped him–soft, shaky.
“I am sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“For assuming the worst,” Aleem admitted. “For letting fear speak first.”
Dasha’s voice softened again.
“Thank you for calling instead of disappearing,” she said.
Aleem’s chest tightened.
“I meant it,” he said. “What I told you in Sapa. I do not want to punish you for my past.”
Dasha was quiet.
Then she said, warm and steady, “Good. Because I will not accept that.”
Aleem smiled.
It was a strange thing–to be confronted without cruelty.
To be held accountable without being shamed.
To be loved in a way that demanded growth.
That night, they spoke for hours.
Not only about her trip to Singapore, but about what this was becoming.
What they wanted.
What they feared.
And how they could do it properly.
When the call ended, Aleem sat in the dark for a long time, phone in his hand.
He realised something.
He did not only want Dasha as a beautiful memory.
He wanted her as a real part of his life.
So he made a decision.
The next day, during lunch, he messaged ABIX.
Aleem: Dasha is coming to Singapore next month.
Crystal replied immediately.
Crystal: Finally.
Belle responded next.
Belle: I am happy for you.
Ivan’s reply came after a short pause.
Ivan: Good. Plan properly.
Aleem stared at Ivan’s message and smiled.
Plan properly.
It sounded like a command.
It sounded like Ivan.
It also sounded like exactly what Aleem wanted to do.
When the day arrived, Aleem stood at Changi Airport with his hands in his pockets.
He was early.
He did not pretend otherwise.
The arrivals hall was bright, polished, full of movement.
Families clustered with bouquets. Couples waited with restless anticipation. Luggage rolled over the floor with steady rhythm.
Aleem watched the doors.
His heart beat too fast.
Not from fear.
From wanting.
Behind him, ABIX hovered.
Crystal had insisted on coming. Belle had followed because she was genuinely happy. Ivan had come because, as he claimed, “Someone needs to make sure you do not act irrationally.”
Crystal leaned close and whispered, “Do not embarrass yourself.”
Aleem did not look away from the doors. “You are the embarrassing one.”
Ivan’s voice was dry. “Both of you are.”
Belle smiled softly. “You will be fine.”
The doors opened.
People poured out.
And then–
Dasha.
She stepped through with her suitcase and backpack, hair loose now, eyes scanning the hall.
When her gaze landed on Aleem, her expression changed.
The world seemed to narrow.
She walked toward him with steady steps, as if she already knew where she belonged.
Aleem did not move until she was close enough to reach.
Then he stepped forward.
Dasha stopped in front of him.
Her eyes searched his face.
“You came,” she said.
Aleem’s mouth tightened, emotion pressing at the edges of his composure.
“Of course I came,” he replied.
Dasha’s smile softened.
Behind him, Crystal made an exaggerated sound of approval.
Belle laughed quietly.
Ivan, predictably, lifted his phone and took a photo without expression.
Dasha glanced past Aleem at ABIX.
Crystal waved. Belle stepped forward with an eager greeting. Ivan nodded.
Dasha looked back at Aleem.
And then she moved closer.
She reached for his hand.
Her fingers slipped into his.
Aleem felt the warmth of it travel up his arm.
Dasha’s voice softened.
“So,” she said, “what now?”
Aleem looked at her.
He felt the old instinct to be cautious.
To keep things undefined.
But he also felt the quiet steadiness he had been building–call by call, message by message, choice by choice.
He exhaled.
“Now,” he said, voice low and clear, “we do this properly.”
Dasha’s smile widened.
“Good,” she said.
Aleem lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, deliberate and unhurried.
Crystal made a choking sound behind him.
Belle hid her smile behind her hand.
Ivan said flatly, “You are in public.”
Aleem glanced back at them, then returned his gaze to Dasha.
“I know,” he said. “I am not hiding.”
Dasha’s eyes warmed with approval.
Then, with ABIX watching and the airport moving around them, Aleem pulled Dasha into a hug.
It was not desperate.
It was certain.
It was the embrace of a man who had finally learned that carefulness did not have to mean absence.
Sometimes, being careful meant choosing with intention.
And staying.