Chapter 2: The Weight of Unspoken Words

The next morning arrived with the soft, filtered light that always filtered through our bedroom curtains in the high-floor condo. I woke slowly, the faint ache behind my eyes reminding me that sleep had not come easily. Nick’s side of the bed was already empty, the sheets cool where he had lain. A small note rested on his pillow in his neat, slanted handwriting Early client call. Made you kopi-O kosong — it’s in the thermos. Have a good day, babe. Love you. I stared at the note for a long moment, tracing the familiar loops of his letters with my fingertip. The words were sweet, ordinary. Exactly what he always left when he slipped out before I woke. Yet today they felt heavier, like they carried a question I couldn’t quite answer. I padded to the kitchen in my bare feet, the marble cold against my skin. The thermos stood on the counter beside a small plate with two pieces of kueh from last night, neatly covered. I poured the coffee into my favourite mug — the one with the tiny lotus pattern — and took a slow sip.

It was perfect, just the right bitterness with no sugar. Nick never forgot. As I sat at the breakfast bar, sipping the warm kopi, my mind drifted unwillingly back to the hidden room. In the bright morning light, the memory felt almost unreal, like a half-remembered dream. Had I really seen those chains swaying gently in the red glow The padded leather walls that swallowed every sound The wooden frame standing so patiently in the centre I set the mug down harder than I intended, the soft clink echoing in the quiet kitchen. No. I couldn’t keep thinking about it. Pretending was the only way forward. If I acted strange, Nick might notice. He was always so observant — the way he could tell when I was coming down with a cold before I even felt the first sniffle, or when I was anxious about family gatherings. I had to be normal Hoay today. The wife who smiled easily and asked about his day without hesitation. I spent the morning doing small, familiar things. I watered the monstera plant by the window, its broad leaves catching the sunlight. I folded the laundry from yesterday, inhaling the clean scent of detergent that always reminded me of fresh starts. When I passed the door to Nick’s home study — the small room we had set up together with a simple desk and bookshelves — I paused for a second. My hand hovered near the handle, but I pulled it back quickly. No. There was nothing in there. Our home was safe. The secret belonged only to his office in Shenton Way.

By midday, I had convinced myself the unease was fading. I even managed a small laugh while chatting with my mother on the phone about her latest recipe for bak kut teh. “Yes, Ma, I’ll try it this weekend,” I promised, my voice light. “Nick will love it.” When Nick texted me around two in the afternoon — Meeting finished early today. Heading back to the office for a bit, then home by six. Want me to pick up mangoes from the market — I replied almost immediately Yes please! The sweet Thai ones. See you later ❤️ The rest of the afternoon passed in a careful rhythm. I prepared a simple dinner — steamed fish with ginger and spring onions, some stir-fried vegetables, and rice. The familiar tasks grounded me. By the time I heard the soft beep of the door lock at ten past six, I had my smile ready. Nick stepped inside carrying a plastic bag from the wet market, the scent of fresh mangoes mingling with his cologne. He looked refreshed, the earlier fatigue from yesterday gone. His eyes found mine instantly, warm and focused.