“I met him earlier this year” I began, voice softening without meaning to.
“Sometime in early February. I’d gone up to Negeri Sembilan with my mother.” At that time, life was in-between things no fixed path, no clear map. I had just resigned from the Rollei factory. Tired of the repetition, of standing for hours, of being another face in a row of machines and people clocking in and out.
I was supposed to start Teacher’s Training College soon. Everything was planned or at least, I thought it was. During the day, I worked at Rollei. At night, I rushed to Katong Technical School to attend “A” level classes under the Adult Education Board. Tired as hell, but determined.
Then her voice cut in sharp, teasing. “Okay, hang on there!” My roommate raised a brow, arms crossed. “You were supposed to go to Teacher’s Training College [ TTC ]. So how on earth did you end up in Nursing School?”
I grinned. “Don’t ask. Honestly — I don’t even know.”
She gave me that look. “Swear. I woke up that morning, fully dressed and ready to report to TTC. Then I saw this advertisement in the Straits Times it had these big words printed across the top: ‘Don’t You Want to Be a Nurse?’” I paused, raised both brows dramatically. “Presto! Here I am.”
“You just... changed your mind? Like that?” she asked, amused. I shrugged. “Can’t explain how or why. It just happened. Like something inside me decided before I did.” Then I nudged her playfully.
“Now can I continue the story of him, since you're suddenly so interested?”
She nodded, mock-serious, like a schoolgirl leaning into a ghost story. I remember pressing my forehead against the window, watching the world slip past in long, gentle blurs the rigid lines of HDB blocks slowly giving way to open fields and swaying palms.
The city noise melted into the hush of the countryside. Horns replaced by rustling trees. Steel replaced by green. And for a moment, I was a child again.I used to love watching toy trains move in circles round and round on little plastic tracks, never stopping, never getting tired. There was something hypnotic about it. Something comforting.
Back then, I didn’t care where the train was going. It was the motion that mattered that sense of something always moving, always alive. But this train felt different. This was real. This had weight. I wasn’t watching it anymore I was inside it. And every station we passed reminded me that I was headed somewhere unfamiliar. No reset button. No rewind.
Just forward.His mother was already waiting for us at the station when we arrived. Simple woman. Smiled kindly. Spoke little. As soon as we reached their house, I noticed him standing by the front gate. Like he’d been waiting there for hours.
Like he already knew who I was.He greeted us as though we were family not strangers, not visitors. Like he belonged in our lives already, and we just hadn’t realised it yet. While our mothers disappeared into the kitchen busy with recipes and gossip I found myself alone in the hall.
Just catching my breath. Then he sat down across from me. Quietly. Firmly. This big guy broad shoulders, full voice, and a bit of a bulging tummy looked me straight in the eye and asked, "Don’t you remember me?" I blinked.
He was sitting across from me like he owned the table confident, grounded, unbothered. The kind of person who takes up space without even trying. And there I was, sitting on a rattan stool in my cotton kurung, suddenly feeling like a child again small, awkward, unsure where to put my hands.
I glanced down at his tummy it bulged slightly beneath his faded T-shirt, soft but solid. It was kind of funny, actually. Here was this big man with the body of someone who loved food and lived well — and he was staring at me, asking if I remembered him. I didn’t. And in that moment, I didn’t know what to say.
All I could think was: How did I end up here, on this porch, being studied like a puzzle piece he’s trying to fit into place? For a moment, I felt... small. Like I should remember, like I was failing a test I hadn’t studied for. He looked so big not just in size, but in presence.
Then, as if on cue, both mothers emerged from the kitchen laughing, half-chiding. His mother looked at mine and said, “I know you’ve got three daughter. Which one is the one who likes eating bread with condensed milk?”Without hesitation, my mother turned to me and pointed. “This one.”
She interrupted me again couldn’t help herself. “Wait, wait. How do you even eat condensed milk and bread?” I blinked.
“Huh? You’ve never tried?” She gave me a look. “I mean… isn’t it sweet?”
“Of course, lah! Sweet but nice.” She looked unconvinced.“You just spread the condensed milk over the bread simple. Then eat it.” Still, that look stayed on her face. So I leaned in and gave her the real recipe.
“Okay, listen. If you want to make it even better spread butter first, then layer the condensed milk on top. Then close it up with another slice of bread. Like a sandwich.” I sighed dramatically.
“Fantastic taste.”She raised her eyebrows. “Hmm. I must try it one day. Sounds illegal.”
We both laughed.hen she tilted her head and looked at me sideways.
“Okay lah… so what’s so significant about this milk and bread? Got history is it?” I smiled.“Actually… yes.”I paused, thinking about it — that unexpected memory, now so oddly precious.“
His mother told me that Sharil learnt how to eat bread and condensed milk from me. Said he used to follow me around when we were little.”
She blinked. “You serious?”I nodded.“ She said they came over to our house one day — I must have been what, five? — and I was sitting at the table eating a slice of white bread slathered with condensed milk. Apparently, he saw me, got curious, and insisted on having the same.” I laughed.
“And from that day on, he was hooked. His mother said he still eats it that way.”
My roommate snorted. “Wah. So now we know. It’s not just milk and bread — it’s legacy food.”
“This guy then asked me,” I continued, “if I remembered the sotong — you know, squid stuffed with glutinous rice, soaked in spicy gravy.” My roommate perked up. “Wah… sounds shiok already.” I nodded.
“I told him of course I remember that. It’s my mother’s best recipe. She makes it during special occasions. I love her stuffed sotong. Especially with that thick, slightly sweet sambal gravy that clings to the rice.” I could almost taste it again just thinking about it.
“Apparently,” I said, “the day his family came to visit us, my mother was cooking that exact dish. He said he never forgot it.” I paused, frowning slightly. “But here’s the thing I remember the sotong, the smell of it, the heat from the kitchen, everything… but I don’t remember him.”
I looked at her, a little confused. “How come I only remember the sotong, but not this person?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Aiyaaa!” she cried, throwing her hands in the air, grinning. “Of course your mother’s sotong would be more memorable than this funny-looking fellow who was probably following you around like some lost ghost!”
I burst out laughing. She continued, “Think about it lah one is spicy, fragrant, delicious… the other is just a boy with big eyes and no seasoning.” Now I was wheezing.
“Honestly, if I went to someone’s house and smelled cooking like that, I’d remember the food too. People come and go, but stuffed sotong? That leaves a mark.”
Then his mother said “You were the only family I had left, but I was worried. I received a letter from the Ministry they wanted me to register my son.He was supposed to go for National Service,He was turning eighteen soon. The letter came with a date and everything. It felt so official. So final.” I just… I couldn’t allow it. Not after everything we’d already been through. He became the man of the house after his father died strong, responsible, quiet, but carrying so much inside. He kept me going when I couldn’t get out of bed. He helped with the younger ones. He never complained. And now they wanted to take him too. To train him, break him, toughen him up — like they say. But what if something happened to him during training? What if I lost him too? What if he never came back the same? I know people say it’s just two years. That it builds character, discipline. Maybe for some it does. But all I could think was — I just buried his father. I couldn’t bury my son too. I had no choice. I packed our things. I took my children back to Negeri Sembilan. My kin are here. The language is familiar. The land knows my name. I knew — I hoped — they would help. I didn’t even wait for the CPF withdrawal. I couldn’t. The clock was ticking.”
That evening, we stepped out onto the veranda. The night air was thick and still, crickets humming in the background like they were keeping time. He spoke softly, but the words were heavy. He told me how much he missed Singapore. His friends. His school. The way the streets smelled after rain. He still wrote to them pen on paper, every week but it wasn’t the same. “They’re all still there,” he said. “And I’m here. It’s like I’m watching from behind a glass wall.”
He admitted something then something half-whispered. “Sometimes,” he said, “I get this crazy idea… to just go back.”I turned to look at him. He continued, “I know I’ll be arrested the moment I step in. The system doesn’t forget. But still sometimes the heart doesn’t care.”
His mother had pleaded with him, he told me. She promised she would do everything she could — talk to officials, seek support, just so he could stay and continue his studies here in Malaysia. She couldn’t bear to lose him. Not after everything.
We talked for hours. About school, about Singapore, about favourite hangouts and old bookstores. Turns out, we liked the same kind of music. Same kind of books.“…Not to mention bread and milk,” my roommate’s voice chimed in, cutting through the memory like a familiar jingle.
I turned to see her grinning from her bed, arms folded behind her head. I laughed. “Yes, yes. The legendary Bread and Milk connection.”
“But,” I added, “the only thing we disagreed on…” I paused dramatically. “…was President Carter.”
That set her off. “President Carter?!” she shouted, already half-laughing. “How does he come into the picture?”
I shrugged. “Don’t ask me! We were talking about everything music, politics, books, food. We were in total agreement. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, he asks, ‘Do you like President Carter?’”
She rolled onto her side, wheezing.“So I said, ‘Nope. Can’t stand him.’”
“Why not?” she managed, trying to catch her breath.I raised an eyebrow. “Because he looks funny. And that smile. That irritating smile. Every time I see his face, I think of the Colgate toothpaste advertisement.”
This time she lost it full-blown belly laughs, legs kicking the air, pillow over her face.“Oh my goodness—stop!” she gasped. “Carter the Colgate model!”
“It's true!” I said, giggling now. “He’s always smiling like he just came out of a dental ad.” It was a riot. And in that moment between the shared laughter, between memory and mockery I realised something. Sometimes, it’s not the heavy conversations or the big tragedies that bind people together. Sometimes, it’s the sotong, the bread and milk, and a U.S. president who looked like he sold toothpaste.
We stayed in touch through letters. He was always attentive asked about everything. My ward postings. The nurses I worked with. The patients. The gossip in the hostel. Even the canteen food. He wanted to know it all, like he was still part of my world — even if only through my words. I wished, more than once, that I could speak to him directly. Hear his voice. Let him hear mine.
In one of his recent letters, he told me something that stayed with me. Before he left for Shah Alam, he spent a few days in Johor Bahru. He wrote about sitting alone on a bench in a small park, looking across the water. Across the straits. To the Singapore skyline.He said it hurt. That was the closest he could get.
He wrote: “There’s something about being so near… and yet so far apart.” I read those words again and again. I could see him there sitting by the breakwater, the outlines of our city shining like a memory just out of reach.
“Ouch,” my roommate whispered, her voice low and moved. “That’s… so sad. So touching.” She blinked, staring at me for a long moment.“You know what that reminds me of?” she asked suddenly, eyes gleaming. A beautiful love song. Jamal Abdillah. Ever heard of him?”
I nodded. “Yes! I was in Geylang the other day, walking past a record shop, and they were playing one of his songs. I stopped right there and just listened. I fell in love with his voice immediately.” She raised her eyebrows.“What were you doing in Geylang?” I asked, half-curious, half-teasing.
She smirked. “You’re not to ask. You’re just to listen and pay attention.” She gave me a look. “When the time is right, you’ll know.” Cryptic. As always. She softened. “This particular song… it touched me. The first time I heard it, I knew I had to buy the tape. I've been listening to it nonstop. And now, after hearing your story about him — about that park in Johor — I just… I feel like singing it for you.”
I blinked. “Wait… you can sing Malay songs?” She rolled her eyes. “Only if I want to.”
“Can you actually sing, though?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Do you want to hear it or not?”
I smiled. “Of course I want to hear it.” I sat up straight, suddenly feeling like something magical was about to happen.She walked to her study table, opened the drawer, and rummaged through a few papers. She pulled out a folded piece of paper lyrics, I guessed held it gently in her hands, and stood.Then she looked at me, took a breath… and began to sing. Her voice was mesmerizing.
She didn’t just sing — she poured her soul into it. The words, though in Malay, carried so much emotion, it didn’t matter if you understood every one. You felt them. I sat there, frozen. Speechless. And just as she sang her final note soft, lingering, like the end of a dream we heard clapping at the door.
Jamunah. Mariam. Manjit Kaur. They had been standing there all along, peeking in like curious cats.
“We heard somebody singing,” Manjit said, eyes wide. “Just had to find out who it was.”
“How do you even sing like that?” Mariam asked, almost in awe. My roommate shrugged, suddenly shy. “Don’t know. I just listen to the tape… and imagine myself singing like Jamal Abdillah.” The others giggled, still amazed, and slowly drifted back to their rooms the moment lingering in the air like perfume. She sat back on her bed, still holding the lyrics in her hand, eyes half-closed. I sat in silence for a while.
Then I said it. “I’m supposed to reply to his letter,” I confessed, “but I don’t know what to write.” She turned to look at me. “Writer’s block?” I nodded. “My mind’s all blank today.” Then I sighed. “What really upsets me… is that he talked about the girls in his college.” She blinked.
“Wait. He talked about girls?” I nodded again, tighter this time.“Hmmm,” she said, smirking. “He’s trying to make you jealous.”
I looked away. “No, I’m not jealous.”
“Oh, come on.” Her voice danced.“You’re not jealous,” she mimicked dramatically, “but it disturbs you, right?” I hesitated.Then slowly, I nodded. “Yes. It does.”There it was — the confession. Soft. Private. True.“
He’s only just arrived there,” I muttered. “Everything’s new. And already he’s writing about girls he met in college?” I felt something tighten in my chest. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t heartbreak. Just… that dull, quiet ache when someone you care about suddenly feels slightly out of reach. Like watching them wave from across a moving train.
“Why don’t you write about boys to make him jealous?” she suggested with a wicked grin. “And no more of those depressing patient stories. No more bedsores. No more dying uncles. Talk about recruits.” I blinked.
“Recruits? What recruits?”
“The National Service recruits, lah! Who else would I be talking about?” She rolled her eyes. “Come on. Let’s make your letter more exciting.”I chuckled.
“But I don’t know any recruits.”
“Well, now you do,” she said, dramatically waving her hand. “You know me, and I know plenty. So here’s what you write…” I sat up straighter, amused. “Go on. I’m listening.”
She leaned in, eyes glinting.“Recruits come to us with heatstroke, right?”I nodded slowly. “Yeah, but I’ve never actually seen one. Not in SGH.”
“In Alexandra Hospital, you see them all the time. Practically one every day”
“So… how do we treat heatstroke again?” I asked, baiting her. She didn’t hesitate.“We strip them and sponge their bodies down to bring their core temperature down.” I raised an eyebrow. “We strip them?” She shrugged.
“Of course! Naked, soaked in ice water, the whole works.” I gasped in mock horror. “But… patient modesty! It’s in our nursing book we’re supposed to maintain it at all times.”
“Aiyooo,” she said, waving it off. “You know, I know all that. But people outside the ward? Always curious. Always imagining what goes on behind the curtains.” She leaned in, whispering like she was sharing state secrets.
“So let their mind goes wild, lah. Give them something juicy. Tell your pen-pal about this one particular recruit, admitted to your ward with classic heatstroke. Gorgeous, of course. Tall. Tan. Those tight army muscles. Black, brooding eyes.” I was laughing now, covering my mouth with a pillow.
“Every day,” she continued, “you sponge him gently, watching as he gradually sits up in bed. Still fragile, still recovering… but damn those eyes. Staring at you. Every time you take his temperature, your heart rate goes up to 120.” I stared at her. “I can’t believe I’m hearing all this.”
“Believe it,” she said, dramatically. “Make the man sweat.”
Then she looked at the clock. “Okay, it’s late. You’re morning shift tomorrow, right?” I nodded.
“I’m afternoon. I promised the Chinese girls I’d join them for their drama serial — Destiny. You know the one with the guy who looks like Leslie Cheung?” She grabbed her blanket and, just like that, rushed out. I lay back, trying to sleep but my mind was spinning.I kept replaying our conversation. The laughter. The crazy heatstroke recruit story. The way she talked so freely, so fearlessly.
Eventually, I gave up trying to sleep. Maybe I’ll just head downstairs. Join her and the girls. Watch a bit of Destiny. I slipped on my slippers and made my way down. The Chinese girls were there, eyes glued to the TV.
“Hey,” I whispered, “is she here?” They shook their heads.
