She saw him. Sitting at the same table where they had first met. Same place. Same posture. Same calm gaze. He hadn’t changed much. She didn’t expect him to.
“Nice to see you again,” he said as she approached. “And thank you for coming.” She nodded, quiet. She had lost count—of how long it had been. Days. Months. Maybe years. It didn’t matter anymore. Time had stretched and folded in on itself. What she needed was space—and she had taken it.
The distance had carved a vacuum between them. She had tried to fill it—with memories, moments, small things they once shared. But when she reached for them, they were gone. Blurred. Faded. Somehow, they had vanished.
Her thoughts drifted. Not to Luqman—not yet—but to a conversation she once had with a younger nurse she had befriended, someone who saw the world through science and wonder.
“If you look up at the universe,” the young woman had said, “it’s made up of vacuums. Everything between the Earth, the Sun, and the stars—those are not just empty, cold spaces. They're filled with things we can’t easily quantify.
Light, radio waves, gamma rays, X-rays… all of it passes through vacuum. But if you try to hold your hand inside that space—there would be nothing.” Noorie had listened quietly, fascinated. The young nurse spoke with conviction, her hands animated, her voice calm and certain.
“Now imagine this,” she continued. “At the bottom of the ocean, pressure is so intense it can crush submarines. If you step out of one, your whole body would collapse under the weight.”
Noorie remembered watching her, absorbing every word. “But space is the opposite. There’s no pressure. No atmosphere. Because the molecules are spread out as far as possible. So, if you step into it—your body wouldn’t be crushed. It would expand. Your molecules would try to scatter. You’d blow apart.”
“Interesting concept,” Noorie had murmured.
“I’m not done yet,” the young nurse had said, eyes gleaming. “Since there’s no atmosphere, no pressure—and your molecules are all spreading out—you’d eventually become nothing. Just like space. You’d become the vacuum.”
“So what you’re saying,” Noorie recalled responding, “is that space is made up of nothing. And that nothing is the vacuum.”
“Exactly!” the young nurse had grinned, delighted. “You got it.” Heavy stuff. But strangely comforting.
And now, sitting across from Luqman again, in a place that once meant something, Noorie realized: The vacuum wasn’t just out there, between planets and stars. It was here too. In people. In memory.
In time. “I spoke to your father,” Lukman said gently. “He told me you were at the office—to hand over the keys.”
“I just did that,” she replied. “Thank goodness. It’s all over now. We can leave it behind… and move on.”
“That’s why I called,” he said. “I needed to talk to you. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry about?”
“I abandoned you,” he admitted. “I wasn’t there when you needed help. I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t sure how to react to all of it… so I stayed away.”
“It’s okay, Lukman,” she said softly. “It’s okay. I’m just relieved it’s over.”
“How about us?” he asked, quieter now. “Is that over too?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she looked at the plate-glass mirror along the café wall beside them. Her own reflection stared back. It was her face, she knew that—but for a second, it felt like a stranger.
That question echoed again in her mind—“Describe yourself.” She remembered the conversation clearly. Someone had once told her: To describe yourself honestly is to know yourself. And to know yourself is the first step to meeting your goals. But to succeed, you must be brutally honest.
She stared at the reflection. What could she say? The mirror showed a woman. Tired eyes. A composed face. But was that really her? Or was it just an image—a filtered reality shaped by fatigue, doubt, survival?
She thought of the young women she had counselled. The anorexic patients who looked into mirrors and saw themselves as fat when they were emaciated. What if the mirror lies? What if it only shows what your mind allows you to see?
Lukman’s voice brought her back. “My sister spoke to me the other day,” he said.
“Ustazah Kamariah?” she asked. “How is she? How’s your father?”
“They’re both well. They send their regards to you. Kamariah’s been worried. She keeps asking why you stopped coming around.” Noorie looked down.
“When I told her the truth,” Lukman continued, “she scolded me. Told me to come see you. Insisted I apologize.”
“Apologize for what?”
“For abandoning you,” he said, the words coming slower now. “You were there for us. When my father had his bypass, in the hospital, at home… you were always there. And what did I do in return? I disappeared the moment things got hard for you.” He paused. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m ashamed of myself.”
Ah, Ustazah Kamariah… A wonderful soul, Noorie thought. She remembered the long hours they’d spent together, debating and dissecting all things Islam. Noorie often disagreed—sometimes strongly. There were moments when she wanted to speak up, challenge Kamariah’s assertions, verbalize her doubts. But she didn’t. What was the point of creating unnecessary tension?
Let them think what they want, she had decided. Kamariah’s words hadn’t changed her. If anything, they had deepened her reasoning—made her convictions even stronger. She didn’t walk away from the faith lightly. She walked because she had examined it closely, and it no longer fit. Noorie looked at Lukman.
“Lukman… look at me.” He lifted his gaze, and she met it firmly. “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. And nothing to apologize for.” He opened his mouth, but she raised her hand gently.
“Whatever I did for your father—I did because I wanted to. Not because you or your family asked me to. No one forced me.”
He shook his head. “And I returned your kindness in the crudest way.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said calmly. “Please listen. When you do something for someone, there shouldn’t be any conditions attached. I didn’t help because I was in love with you. I did it because it was the right thing to do.”
She paused, her voice softening. “I demanded nothing in return. Not from you. Not from your family. Please understand—I’m not angry.” There was a moment of stillness between them.
“My parents…” he began slowly, “they wanted to come over. To meet your family. To discuss us.”
Noorie felt the air thicken.
“I’ve thought this through…” he added. Then, without hesitation, he reached across the table and took her hand. Their fingers entwined—tight, unflinching. She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. She didn’t pull her hand away. She needed that touch. Not for romance. Not for promises. But for the warmth of connection. Of understanding. Of two people who, despite everything, still saw each other.
“Forgive me, please,” she said, her voice soft. “You’re a good man, Lukman. A really good man.” She looked away briefly, as though admitting the next part to herself.
“I’m not sure about me. Not right now. You deserve someone who’s more certain. I don’t think I can fit into anything serious at this moment.” He said nothing.
“I just… I need space. A little more time. To be away for a while. And then… who knows.”
“You’re going somewhere?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “Just a short trip. My bag’s packed. I’m taking the night bus. Heading up north, to a small fishing village. I want to be alone. That’s all.”
“Alone?”
“For a week or two. Maybe longer. I want to clear my thoughts… and start revising. Exams are coming.”
He looked at her gently. “Where is this place, if you don’t mind me asking? I promise I won’t disturb you. I just… want to know.”
“Pangkor Island,” she said. “I know a Chinese family there. They own a small campsite. We met years ago—before you came into the picture.” She paused, remembering. “Their mother was admitted to my hospital. Diabetic ketoacidosis. I was on leave at the time—had all these accumulated days off. My ward sister told me to use them. I didn’t want to travel. But a friend in private nursing called. They needed a nurse urgently. The patient’s doctor requested 30-minute blood sugar monitoring. The ward staff were short-handed, especially at night.”
“I agreed to take it on. Five nights only, during the critical stage.”
“What happened next?” he asked.
“They wanted to pay me—but they couldn’t afford it. Most of their savings had gone to unexpected medical costs.”
“If they couldn’t pay, how did they come to Singapore for treatment?”
“They had first gone to KL Hospital. But the mother’s condition worsened. They transferred her here—she arrived comatose. They chose public hospital care, not private. It was still expensive, but less than private rates.” He nodded quietly.
“They didn’t realise how much private nurses cost. I saw their bill. I understood. So I only took enough to pay the agency’s commission. Nothing else.” She smiled faintly.
“They were so grateful. Told me I could come visit them anytime if I needed to get away. That’s how we became friends. They’ll take care of me. And if you tried to look for me there—they won’t tell you where I am.” He smiled sadly.
“I believe you.” They sat in silence for a moment.
“Do you have plans… after your exams?” She shrugged slightly.
“One step at a time. I’m considering my options.” She glanced at him.
“Mount Elizabeth made me an offer. There’s a nursing degree programme at Sydney University I’ve been eyeing. And then…” she hesitated, “the International Red Cross. I received a letter from them too.
Everything’s coming at once. I need time to think.” He looked down, then up.
“Can I ask for a small favour?”
“Of course.”
“Can you write to me?” he asked, his voice low. “I know you won’t call. But even a short note... or an empty postcard. I just need to hear from you. Even once. Will you do that?” She paused. Then smiled.
“I’ll write,” she said. “I promise.” He nodded slowly, as if bracing himself.
“Think it over, will you? About us. We could start again. From the beginning. I’ll wait.” She touched his hand gently.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Maybe we can.”
Hopefully.
Chpt 28 / 36
