Chapter 4
Only a stop along the way.
When time passes, silence remains.
Suffering alone.
No one cares.
It was at a resort in Pulau Tioman that I first met Syed Ikram. I had come for a week-long seminar on interior design; he was there with friends on vacation.
At first, I didn’t pay much attention, though I sensed someone’s eyes following me. I tried to stay calm, lining up for food at the café during dinner. I thought it was just my imagination — until a man approached, holding out a drink.
He started a casual conversation. Nothing flirtatious, just easy and light. But that chat didn’t end there. We exchanged business cards, then numbers. I never imagined that chance meeting would blossom into something… different. That night, we sat by the beach, talking until dawn. Sleep never came. We spoke of work, life, celebrity gossip, even politics — as though we had known each other forever.
When the sun began to rise, the sky painted itself in pink and gold. It was breathtaking. Romantic, even. I’d never experienced a moment so serene, so unguarded. At first, I hesitated to grant his request to stay until morning — but Syed Ikram’s gentle persuasion melted my defenses.
Time vanished. And at some point, I must have dozed off — because when I woke, my head was resting on his shoulder. He didn’t move. He simply pulled me closer, draped his jacket around me.
“You were dreaming,” he whispered, amused. “Mumbling to yourself.”
“What did I say?” I asked, startled, embarrassed.
“Sounded like you missed someone.”
“Oh? Really?” I tried to laugh it off.
He tilted his head. “Who’s Tuan Khairil?”
My blood ran cold. Why that name? I hadn’t uttered it in years. I’d buried it — along with Cikgu Kamal and every other man I’d sworn to forget. I was done with them. I was learning to love myself.
“An old friend,” I said softly. That was all I could offer.
Syed Ikram smiled, that gentle curve of lips that made my chest ache.
“Don’t think of those who are far away. Remember the one right beside you.”
Simple words — yet something warm bloomed inside me.
The seminar ended, and I returned to Kuala Lumpur. I thought the connection would fade — just another holiday acquaintance. But two days later, my phone rang. It was him.
That was the beginning.
He called every morning. Every night. And soon, he was in the city every weekend. We would spend the day together — watching movies, exploring new cafés. We shared the same weakness for food. If a place went viral, we were there, indulging, laughing, tasting.
Sometimes, we skipped the world entirely — staying in, cooking, or just watching TV in each other’s quiet company.
Those days were the happiest I’d known. He treated me like royalty — gentle, patient, protective.
And though desire sometimes whispered between us, I never dared to act on it. I feared rejection — or worse, losing the purity of what we had. He never pushed, never crossed a line. At most, his fingers brushed mine; sometimes, he’d catch me when I stumbled.
He was different. Not like the others — not like Tuan Khairil, Cikgu Kamal, Mustapha, or Christopher from London.
Among them all, Syed Ikram stood apart.
He was tall — six foot two — with a strong, sculpted frame, warm brown skin, and eyes that held a certain depth, a quiet fire. His smile revealed twin dimples that could undo any soul. His lips were soft and red; his scent lingered. Even the fine hair on his arms and chest fascinated me.
I fell for him, silently, helplessly.
When I could, I visited Johor Bahru. He would take me to Desaru’s breezy shores, the waterfalls of Kota Tinggi, or across to Singapore for shopping. Every trip became a memory etched deep in me.
Then one night, as I packed to return to Kuala Lumpur, he came into my room. Sat beside me. His gaze lingered — steady, almost searching. I felt bare, vulnerable. I had just showered; no eyeliner, no foundation, no lipstick.
“I like you better without makeup,” he said softly. “You look… real.”
I blushed, lowering my eyes. “You don’t have to say that. I know I’m not much to look at without it.”
“I mean it,” he insisted, smiling. “You’re beautiful just like this.”
“Flattery will get you anything, won’t it?” I teased, though my heart bloomed with warmth.
He laughed quietly, touched my cheek. His fingers burned on my skin.
From that night on, I began to live simply — no more heavy makeup, just a hint of eyeliner, a brush of natural lip tint.
At his request, I dressed more neutrally outside — shirts, jeans, soft fabrics that didn’t scream. But at home, he let me be whatever I wanted. Wrapped in batik, lounging in a baju kurung, or twirling in a short dress — he never judged.
For him, I could be anything. For him, I was willing to give everything.
“I have something for you,” he said one evening, arriving at my apartment.
I was folding clothes, distracted. “What is it?”
He smiled — that mysterious smile that both thrilled and unnerved me.
Then he dropped to one knee.
From his jacket pocket, he pulled a small red velvet box. Inside — a diamond ring.
My breath caught. My mind went blank.
“Will you marry me?”
I stared at him, trembling. “Are you joking?”
His eyes flickered with hurt. “I don’t joke about love.”
My throat tightened. I wanted to scream in joy, but no words came.
“Will you?” he asked again, voice barely above a whisper.
I nodded — tears blurring my sight. And when I finally said yes, he leaned forward and kissed my forehead.
It was the first time his lips had ever touched me.
In that moment, the world disappeared. There was only us.
“Like a princess!” my friend Bada exclaimed, eyes wide as I recounted how Syed Ikram proposed.
“That’s what makes him special,” I said, smiling through tears. “He treats me like I’m his woman. And he wants to do something extraordinary for our wedding.”
“On Valentine’s Day, right?”
“Yes. February 14th — the day of love. He said it would be the perfect symbol of our bond.”
I hesitated before adding, “I know it’s not part of our culture. But everyone celebrates love that day. Why not us?”
Bada raised an eyebrow. “Everyone? Not me.”
“Fine — almost everyone,” I laughed.
“So you’re making that day sacred, even though it’s not ours?” she teased.
“Maybe. But love made me blind then. Everything seemed perfect. I loved him too deeply to see anything else.”
Bada sighed. “You and your heart. Always all or nothing.”
“Look,” I said, handing her an album. “You don’t believe me? See for yourself.”
A week before the ceremony, Syed Ikram brought me to a photography studio. It was lavish — racks of wedding gowns, traditional costumes, tuxedos.
We spent the entire day there. Eight outfit changes — from gold-threaded songket to a cream-white gown that barely fit my broad shoulders. Some dresses wouldn’t zip; others clung too tight. The cream gown was the only one that sat right.
He watched patiently as stylists powdered and painted me over and over again. His eyes never left me.
“These pictures will be my eternal memory,” he whispered as I leaned into him for a pose.
“I can’t believe you’d do all this for us,” I murmured, overwhelmed.
“I’d do anything,” he said, resting his hand on my waist.
By the time the session ended, it was nine at night. We had dinner at a Japanese restaurant before driving home. Exhausted, I rested my head on his shoulder. He told me to sleep — that he’d wake me when we arrived.
But how could I sleep, when happiness was so close? In a week, on February 14th, we’d be newlyweds.
He wanted a grand celebration at an exclusive club. I refused. “Let’s keep it small,” I said. “Just friends. Simple, but full of joy.”
He agreed.
Bada, of course, would be there — my maid of honor, my makeup artist, my sister in everything but blood.
“I’ll make you look like an angel,” she promised.
I laughed. “I’m no beauty.”
“Who says?” she protested. “Compared to most women, you’re radiant. That skin — so smooth, so soft!”
“God’s gift,” I smiled.
“Gift or not, you take care of it. Not like me. Spa? Lazy. Facial? Never. No wonder my men never last!”
“Bada!” I laughed until tears rolled down.
But she grew quiet for a moment. “You know, you and Syed Ikram — you’re perfect together. Maybe it’s finally your time.”
“I hope so,” I whispered. “I’m tired of being wrong about love.”
So many before had come and gone — one stop along the way. Each departure carved another scar. I had wept enough for a lifetime.
Bada nudged me. “No more tears. Smile, bride-to-be!”
She was right.
I had found peace in a man who made me feel whole again.
Then suddenly she gasped. “Oh! One more thing.”
“What now?” I asked, amused.
“When you’re married, don’t call him Syed Ikram anymore. It’s not sweet. You should call him Abang.”
“Abang?” I laughed. “He’ll think I’m ridiculous!”
“No,” she said firmly, grinning. “He’ll love it.”
And maybe… she was right.
