Chapter 3
When I love, I surrender my soul and my body—without compromise. Period.
THAT first experience left a mark so deep it seared through my veins. I couldn’t quite believe what I had gone through. Disgust. Fear. Guilt. A thousand feelings strangled my chest. That morning, I woke up late.
The clock on the wall struck nine. My heart pounded. I bolted upright, or tried to. Failed. Mr. Khairil’s strong arm was still wrapped across my chest. He was lying on his side, holding me close. His breath brushed against my neck — rough, heavy, too real. I tried to push his arm away. He stirred, smiled, and pulled me closer.
I tried resisting, but he leaned in, kissing my cheek and my lips before I could speak. My body froze, my mind screamed, yet my soul went silent. The more I resisted, the more desperate he became. Until I gave up — and let him do as he pleased. Strange, wasn’t it?
Half of me resisted, half of me surrendered. What was that feeling? After that night — and that morning — I often found myself returning to his house. I made up reasons for my mother, who never questioned much.
“He’s a good man,” she’d say. “But remember, he’s rich, and we’re not. Don’t forget your place.” Our secret went on for months.
We became masters of pretending. In front of my parents, he was the kind elder brother. Behind closed doors, I was his beloved.
Every stolen hour, every glance, every whisper became our silent addiction. Sometimes, guilt gnawed at me.
I told him once that what we were doing was wrong. He only smiled and said, “How can love be wrong when it feels so right?” His words, soft and poisonous, melted my doubts. Bit by bit, my guilt faded away.
“Hey! Daydreaming again?”
The voice shattered the memory. Khairil’s face dissolved into nothing.
“Oh, Jef! You’re home early?” I turned, startled. “Skipped class. Not feeling great.” He slumped onto the couch, unbuttoning his shirt until his firm chest was visible. He leaned back, eyes closed. “Are you sick?” I asked, moving closer.
“Maybe. Feels like a fever.” “Did you take any medicine?” He shook his head. I went to the kitchen, brought him a glass of water and two pills. “I don’t like pills, Brian. They’re bitter,” he said, pushing them away like a sulking child. I chuckled despite myself.
“Maybe if you give me a head massage instead,” he murmured, laying his head on my lap before I could react. Blood rushed to my face. My heart raced like a drum. His eyelashes brushed my thigh. His nose, sharp and perfect, begged to be touched. His lips—thin, reddish—made me swallow hard.
“Well? Are you going to do it or not?” he teased, grabbing my hand and placing it on his head. Nervously, I began to rub his temples, fingers trembling. His hair was soft between my fingertips. I shouldn’t have remembered him, but I did—Syed Ikram. Damn it, why did his name still echo in me?
“Daydreaming again?” Jef looked up, smiling. He poked my cheek. I pouted, pretending to sulk, though my heart was fluttering.
“Just thinking about someone… someone who’s gone,” I said quietly. “Gone?” He sat up, facing me cross-legged. “Someone I once loved.” He smiled faintly. His eyes searched mine with a look I couldn’t decipher—sympathy or curiosity?
“I think I know who.” His voice dropped, steady and sure. I looked away, his gaze slicing through me. “Syed Ikram, right?” My heart stopped.
“How do you know?” He pointed at the photo on the wall. “His name’s on the corner of that picture. And that love poem… it’s not hard to guess.” I sighed. No more secrets. Jefri already knew too much. “And I’m guessing Brian was the name he gave you?”
I nodded again. He was right. Bahrin sounded too old-fashioned, too ordinary, he said. Brian was more glamorous, more me.
“What’s your real name then?” he asked gently. “Why do you want to know?” He smiled.
“Because since the day I moved in, you’ve never wanted me to call you anything but Brian. That means it’s special, right? But maybe your real name is special too.” I hesitated, then sighed.
“There’s nothing special about it. That name reminds me of everything I’ve lost.” “So… you hate the name your parents gave you?” I shook my head. “No. I could never hate it. I just… prefer Brian. It gives me strength to face what I am.”
He leaned closer, eyes glinting. “Still, can I know it?” His persistence amused me. That handsome face, the boyish charm — it was hard to say no. “Bahrin. Bahrin bin Sulaiman.” He grinned.
“A beautiful name. It fits you.” “How so?” I asked. “Do you know what the name Bahrin means in numerology?” I shook my head. He continued with that mischievous spark in his eyes.
“It adds up to the number 52. That number describes someone emotional, brave, affectionate, loves giving and receiving gifts — and most of all, someone who spoils the people they love.” I laughed softly.
“Where did you learn all this?” “I study people,” he said with a shrug. “Behavior, patterns, names… everything. You’d be surprised how accurate it gets. And you, Brian — or Bahrin — you are that person. Emotional. Loving. Loyal to the point of self-destruction.”
I stared at him, speechless. Every word was true. When I love, I give everything. Even my life, if I must.
“Brian or Bahrin, you’re still the same person,” Jef said softly. “Love both sides of you. Don’t let a name define your pain.” His kindness made my chest ache. I wanted to hold him, to thank him, to lose myself in that warmth—but I didn’t. Not yet. He was too pure, too near, too soon. I needed to go slow. Slow and steady.
“What happened between you and Syed Ikram?” he asked later, wearing nothing but a singlet and shorts.
“I loved him. Desperately.” “And he broke you?” “I almost died when he left.”
“Just because of that man?” His name on Jef’s lips felt like a wound reopening. My tears fell freely. “Hey, don’t cry,” Jef said awkwardly.
“You’ll ruin your makeup.” My heart dropped. I ran to the mirror — and screamed. I hadn’t shaved!
That afternoon, I went to Bada’s salon. She decided I needed a haircut. “You look miserable,” she said. “Let’s change that.” As her scissors danced, she spoke casually.
“You can’t keep wearing your pain like perfume, darling.” “That’s easy for you to say.”
“Oh, please. You think I haven’t been there?” she scoffed. “Megat left me for a widow with five kids. Five! I nearly lost my mind. Spent a fortune on him. Should’ve cut off his balls and fed them to the dogs!”
“Bada!” I yelped as she nearly snipped my ear. “Sorry!” She laughed. “Got carried away.” “Don’t compare your Megat to Ikram. He’s different,” I said quietly.
“Different? Men are all the same,” she snapped. I laughed through the mirror. She was ridiculous — and yet, she was my only friend who dared to tell me the truth. “You never liked him,” I reminded her.
“Because I knew he’d break you. And look — now you’re just skin and bones.” She stopped cutting and took my hands. “You deserve better.” “I’m trying to move on,” I whispered. “That easy?” “No. But I have to try. Please, Bada.” She frowned. “Then get rid of everything — his letters, his photos…”
“What do the photos have to do with this?” “You still keep them, don’t you? Can you throw them away?” Her question sliced me open.
I couldn’t answer. She smirked bitterly. “Three years together, like husband and wife. Don’t lie, Bahrin bin Sulaiman
.” When she used my full name, I knew she was angry. I stood, eyes burning, and walked out before she could say more.
In my car, I broke down completely. My face pressed against the steering wheel, tears flooding my lap. Let them stare. Let them whisper. None of them knew what it felt like to love and lose like this.
After half an hour, my sobs faded. I wiped my face, exhaled, and stared out the windshield. Bada’s words echoed still. No matter how much I denied it, I could never erase Syed Ikram. The ring on my finger — that diamond band — still glittered with memories.
Three years ago, on February 14th, we exchanged vows. He in a white suit, me in a cream gown with a veil trailing to the floor. A day that should have been beautiful — and cursed me forever.
