Chapter 7
If there is ever a perfect chance in life, seize it.
Don’t wait.
There will never be a moment that feels truly “right.”
Sometimes you just have to walk through the storm.
“Was it worth it, Brian?” I asked, teasingly, when I saw the faint glow on his face as he spoke about his new experience — one he didn’t name, but didn’t have to.
He gave a small laugh, neither joyous nor guilty.
“Worth it or not, that’s not the point. It just… happened. I didn’t expect that night to end the way it did.”
There was something about the way he said it — light, detached — that unsettled me. His tone carried no triumph, no regret, just a quiet surrender. As though he had learned to expect nothing from anyone anymore. Perhaps Tuan Khairil had taught him that: never to love too much.
“Experience makes you stop waiting,” he said. “I just take whatever comes. That’s all.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” I admitted.
“In life, you can’t plan everything. You can’t hope too hard either. That’s what I’ve learned.
If you try and fail — accept it.
If opportunity knocks — don’t think twice.
Don’t wait for the perfect time. There isn’t one.
Just walk through it.”
I couldn’t say he was wrong. People lived by different rhythms. Some waited, some chased. Some prayed for signs; others became the sign themselves.
“So,” I asked, “between Tuan Khairil and Cikgu Kamal, whom did you truly love?”
He smiled faintly. “I don’t think there was love between us. It was… hunger, more than affection.”
“Hunger?”
“Yes. I used to believe intimacy meant love — that you could only give yourself if your heart was attached. But later, I learned something else — something darker — about what it means to be a man.”
“What’s that?”
He leaned back, thoughtful. “Men can give their bodies even when their hearts are silent. Desire doesn’t always wait for love. When they want something, they’ll chase it until it’s done — then they walk away.”
I didn’t argue.
He was speaking from a place I couldn’t reach — a wound hidden under layers of calm.
“To me,” Brian continued, “women love first, then surrender. Men often surrender first, then think. That’s the difference.
A woman, once she loves, will stay — even when she’s hurt.
A man, once he wants, will go — even when he’s wanted.”
He paused, his voice low.
“Men are like merchants of affection — trading warmth for a fleeting satisfaction.”
I let his words linger. His world was not mine. But I understood the ache between his lines — the fatigue of someone who had mistaken touch for tenderness too many times.
When I asked what became of Cikgu Kamal, Brian’s lips curved into a wry smile.
“That story… was far more dramatic than the one before.”
I sensed the storm returning to his eyes. Beneath his laughter was a sea of hurt he no longer tried to hide.
He continued.
Men — they speak of love as though it were a poem, but their actions often rhyme with betrayal.
He was no different.
That night with Cikgu Kamal — the night that changed everything — should have meant something. Yet by dawn, I realized it meant nothing to him.
When he left the next morning, he didn’t even look back. The door closed softly, like an ending rehearsed a thousand times.
He was gone, and I was left in a room that smelled of rain and regret.
The next day, after theatre practice, I went to the teachers’ room. He wasn’t there. My chest tightened. Eventually, I found him in the library — surrounded by silence, his hand busy writing notes, his face calm but distant.
When he saw me, his expression stiffened.
“I need to talk to you,” I said, pulling a chair.
“Is it important?” he asked without looking up. His tone carried unease — a kind of fear that flickered in his eyes.
“It’s just… strange,” I said, watching him carefully. “You seem to be avoiding me. What are you afraid of, Cikgu?”
He exhaled, set his pen down, and finally met my gaze. His eyes were full of something I couldn’t name — sorrow, maybe guilt.
“I’m sorry for what happened last night,” he said softly. “It shouldn’t have happened. I regret it.”
“Why regret it? We both agreed to be there.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand. Or is it easier to pretend it meant nothing?”
“It’s not like that,” he whispered.
“Then what is it?” My voice trembled. “I thought maybe it meant we were closer. That I mattered.”
“I can’t,” he said, his tone suddenly sharp. “I can’t accept this.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m getting married at the end of this year.”
The words fell like stones.
I laughed bitterly. “That’s fine. I’m not asking you to call off your wedding. I just wanted honesty.”
“I owe my fiancée the truth,” he said, voice low, almost pleading.
The truth — it was always truth when spoken by men, and yet it always arrived too late.
I stood up, leaving him mid-sentence, and walked out. The library’s silence swallowed my footsteps. My heart felt like glass — heavy, fragile, breaking quietly.
I withdrew from the theatre group soon after.
My friends were shocked, but I offered no reason.
They called me the perfect choice for the beggar’s role — someone with deep emotion, they said.
Maybe they were right. Maybe I was born for roles that begged.
Without the play, my days returned to stillness. I helped my mother at home, watched the sky shift between gold and grey. I told myself peace was better than remembering.
Until one afternoon — a familiar voice greeted my father at the gate.
Cikgu Kamal.
He came bearing fruits and a small wrapped parcel.
He spoke kindly, offered apologies, said he hoped I’d return to the theatre. I listened in silence, my heart neither soft nor hard — just quiet.
When he left, I opened the parcel. Inside — a box of women’s cosmetics. Rouge, powder, lipstick.
My breath caught. Was this mockery?
Why such a gift — unless he wished to remind me that I would never be what he wanted?
That night, a knock came at my window.
When I peered through the crack, I saw him again — his face half-lit by moonlight. He gestured for me to come down. I hesitated. My father’s voice echoed in my head. But the night was stronger than reason.
When I stepped outside, he whispered quickly:
“I need the gift back. I made a mistake — it was meant for my fiancée. Yours was another package, books and stationery.”
My chest tightened. “A mistake?”
He nodded, avoiding my eyes.
The air between us froze.
The lie was too obvious, too clumsy.
He left soon after, shoulders heavy with unspoken words.
That night, I sat before the mirror.
The box of makeup lay open like a secret I wasn’t meant to hold. One by one, I traced the colors onto my face — pale foundation, shadowed eyes, crimson lips.
The mirror blurred.
The reflection staring back was not Brian — it was someone braver, someone broken, someone reborn.
But something still felt missing.
I looked around, thinking. Then, almost laughing at myself, I walked to the veranda. The moon watched as I took a purple kebarung from the clothesline — my mother’s.
It fit just enough.
The fabric whispered against my skin.
For that one night, I wasn’t the wounded boy that Cikgu Kamal had left behind.
For that one night, I was queen of my own sorrow — radiant, trembling, defiant.
The storm outside raged until dawn.
And within me, another storm found its name
