“Go on,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
Michael shifted in his seat beside her, trying to find the right words. The bus rumbled along, the soft hum of background noise giving the illusion of privacy. “It’s a good investment plan,” he began, cautiously. “And I can guarantee you 30% return as interest.”
She turned and looked at him—long and steady. Not surprised. Just watching. “Are we going to sign anything?”
He hesitated. “No. It’s a verbal agreement. But verbal contracts are still legally binding, right?”
“That depends,” she replied. “We don’t have any witnesses here. It’s just between you and me. Anything can happen.” She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t accuse. But her gaze made him fidget. It was as though she could see past the words. Past the assurances. Right into the part of him that wasn’t entirely certain.
Michael looked away, suddenly interested in the window, the passing trees, the people boarding and alighting. She followed his gaze but said nothing. He had waited for her at the bus stop that day. He knew her route. He knew her schedule. And he had timed it right.
“Let’s stop at Bedok Central,” she said eventually. “I’ll make the withdrawal.” He gave a small sigh of relief. They got off at the interchange, and while she headed to the nearest ATM, he waited for her at McDonald’s.
When she returned, she placed the folded notes in his hand, quietly.
“I promise,” he said. “I’ll return it all. The principal—and the interest.”
“No,” she said simply. “Michael, listen.”
“I am.”
“Don’t worry about the interest,” she continued. “Just take the money. Do what you need to do.” He blinked, stunned. “But I want to give you something in return. I promise—”
“No, Michael,” she said again, firmer this time. “I don’t want any interest from you. Just return the principal when you can. That’s all.” He sat there, eyes fixed on her, unsure how to respond. He looked almost embarrassed.
“I have class tonight,” she said, rising from the table. She slung her bag over her shoulder, about to leave, when he stopped her.
“Wait—” he reached out gently. “I need to ask… why don’t you want the interest? Is it because of your faith? I’m… really touched.”
She paused. Then she sat back down again, placed her cup of coffee on the table, then reached for his and placed it about thirty centimetres away. “This is me,” she said, pointing to her cup. “And this—” she tapped his cup gently, “—this is my faith. This is how far apart we’ve become.”
Michael said nothing. He just stared at the cups.
“I’ve moved on,” she said. “I’ve left it behind. I have no intention of going back. Not even to reclaim it.” She paused, then looked him straight in the eyes. “So, whatever I’m doing now—it’s not because of religion. It’s because I choose to.”
Michael finally nodded. “Okay… yes. I understand.”
She gave a small smile, then leaned back in her chair. “You know,” she said, eyes resting on the two coffee cups, “in this country, when you say Malay, people don’t just think of a race. They assume everything else too. The language. The food. The culture. And always—Islam.”
Michael stayed quiet, listening. “But here I am,” she continued, “sitting in front of you… still Malay. Still me. Just not the kind they expect.” She looked up, locking eyes with him. “I guess you could say—I’m the other Malay.”
Michael breathed in sharply. He didn’t know what to say. But she didn’t need him to. The silence between them said enough.
“I don’t want to know what the money is for,” she added. “You don’t have to tell me unless you want to.”
“I… I really appreciate it,” he said. “I will return it. I promise.”
She stood again. “Whatever, Michael. Just do what you need to do.” As she turned to go, she stopped and looked back. “I need to know something.”
“Anything,” he said. “Which ward were you admitted to?” He told her. She nodded, then walked away without another word.
Chpt 23 / 36
