For a moment, I was utterly speechless. My feet felt rooted to the spot. Two years no, nearly three since I had last seen him. The last letter I sent, in late 1981, had gone unanswered. After that, I’d stopped checking the mailbox with that tiny flicker of hope. Even his mother had stopped visiting our house. I’d learned to file him away in that part of my mind reserved for people who simply fade out of your life. And yet here he was. Sharil.
Standing in my ward as if no time had passed at all. We met later at the public canteen, where he was waiting for me. I was still moving on instinct, the shock not yet worn off. We took a public bus home together, the hum of the engine and the sway of the vehicle doing nothing to settle my thoughts.
I kept my bag clutched tightly on my lap, staring at the backs of the seats in front of me. Sharil did most of the talking. “I went to your house first your mother told me you were on morning duty. She told me about your ward, so I thought I’d surprise you. I hope I’m not disturbing you, especially if you had plans for the evening…”
I shook my head. “No, you’re not. I’m going off duty anyway. No plans tonight.” I hesitated, then added, “I’ll be leaving for Mount Ophir tomorrow morning with some friends. I’ve already packed, so it’s fine.”
The words felt too casual, too light for the heaviness sitting in my chest. My eyes kept drifting to the window, watching the city blur past, trying to gather my thoughts into something coherent.
“So… how have you been?” His question hung in the air, simple and familiar, but it carried the weight of the years in between.
“I’ve been okay,” I said finally, my voice steadier than I felt. “Keeping myself busy with work… and such.”
He nodded, studying me for a moment. “I can see that… you’ve changed.” There was a faint smile, but his eyes searched mine as if trying to recognise the person he’d once known.
“I’ve been posted to Bank Bumiputra in Johor Bahru and I finally got my passport. I’m down here to meet my friends and, most importantly—” he paused, “you. The person I wanted to meet most.”
I turned slightly toward him. “You never replied to my last letter.” His gaze dropped.
“I know. I’m sorry. There was so much happening projects, internships, exams… everything all at once. I kept meaning to write back, but…” He let the words trail off into the hum of the bus.
And then silence. Not the comfortable kind, but the sort that expands between two people until it feels like a physical thing you can’t step across. I could feel the space between us growing heavier with each passing moment.
If my mind were a cupboard, he was the box I’d pushed all the way to the back years ago. I’d packed him away neatly, taped the lid shut, and told myself I didn’t need to open it again. I knew the box was there, but I’d avoided it for so long, even the thought of touching it made me uneasy.
Now, his sudden presence was like someone dragging that box out into the middle of the room, forcing me to lift the lid. The dust clung stubbornly to my fingers no matter how many times I tried to wipe it away. The memories inside were still intact, untouched by time only heavier now, because I had learned to live without them.
I glanced out of the window again, watching the streets slide past, and realised that even though he was sitting right beside me, he felt impossibly far away. He spent the evening at my place. Mom was home, and the three of us sat in the living room while he talked about his family—his mother, his younger brother and sister. Both were now in the UK: his sister studying Mass Communication, his brother pursuing Biotechnology with plans to continue to a PhD. All sponsored by the Malaysian government.
As for him, he was now in banking, specialising in auditing. He told me he had finally secured his Malaysian passport and was eager to visit Singapore more often, especially to catch up with his old school friends. He still kept in touch with them, apparently but not with me. Two years !
How nice, I thought, though I wasn’t sure if the thought was tinged with admiration… or distance. He left around 6 p.m., saying he was heading to Bukit Timah to visit relatives on his late father’s side.
Before leaving, he promised he would come again in a week to hear all about my Mount Ophir trip. When the door closed behind him, the house felt strangely heavier. His sudden reappearance after years of silence was too much to absorb. It was as if someone had thrown a stone into still water, and the ripples were still spreading, touching parts of me I thought I’d walled off.
I needed air more than the four walls of the house could give me. I wheeled out my mountain bike, slipped on my extra backpack while the other one already packed for tomorrow’s climb and pedalled hard towards East Coast.
The evening air was thick with the smell of the sea, the horizon streaked with the fading gold of sunset. Waves broke softly against the shore, but inside me there was nothing soft, only a restless thrum that urged me forward.
I wasn’t just cycling. I was pushing against something I couldn’t name, as if the faster I pedalled, the further I could get from the questions I didn’t want to face. The tyres hummed against the path, and the wind bit at my face, but I kept going, legs burning, lungs pulling in deep, salt-heavy air.
Part of me wanted to keep riding until the lights of the city were just a faint glow behind me—until the roads emptied and the noise in my head quieted. Far, far away from the ward, from my living room, from that sudden smile at the nurses’ station that had cracked open a sealed part of my past.
Every turn of the wheel felt like a small rebellion: against the years of silence, against the confusion of the present, against the pull of memories I thought I’d buried. But no matter how far I went, I knew I was carrying them with me tucked inside, like a shadow that kept pace no matter how fast I moved.
How I wished Suresh was with me. With him, life had a clear, steady rhythm—no guessing games, no sudden disappearances. He was present. Constant. The kind of person who taught you how to swim patiently, who planned trips months ahead, who made you feel safe without even trying.
And yet… Sharil’s face, his voice, the way he had looked at me in the ward that afternoon they kept sliding back into my thoughts like an old song you didn’t mean to hum but somehow remembered every word to.
I thought about calling Suresh, just to hear his voice, but he was on duty at the medical centre that evening. I didn’t want to disturb him. We were meeting tomorrow at the train station at 8 a.m. with his friends.
I told myself that’s where my focus should be on the climb, the adventure, the present. But as I cycled along the darkening coastline, I realised I wasn’t just packing for Mount Ophir.
I was carrying something heavier: the past I’d tried to leave behind, and the future I wasn’t sure I could see clearly anymore.
