At 0945, my Manager was nowhere in sight. We’d called and sent him text messages, but received no reply. The team started to get worried, and I must admit that I did too. At 0951, a WhatsApp message notification popped up on my phone. It was from my Manager. As everyone was looking expectantly at me, I read out his message as quietly as I could: Feeling unwell. Pls go ahead to present on my behalf. Tks.
Everyone panicked and started whispering over each other. We didn’t have much time left. 0957. The opening address was coming to an end. I gulped down my apprehension and made my way to the front of the room. In retrospect, I don’t know how I did it, but somehow I managed to deliver the presentation. I was familiar with the material, as I’d been the one preparing the slides and talking points. It just felt rather odd for me to be standing there, in place of my Manager, addressing the audience.
Afterwards, colleagues whom I didn’t know came up to introduce themselves. Business cards were exchanged, lunch and coffee appointments made. It was all so surreal. But the most surreal part of the day? It was seeing my Manager drop by after the conference, when the participants had long dispersed, bearing artisan chocolates from the new French confectionary in town.
I realise as I write this now that I’d forgotten to ask my Manager if he was feeling better. I was just so glad to see him that I immediately began updating him on what had happened. I wonder what I’ve done to deserve this overwhelming trust from him. But instead of pondering over the why, I shall revel in the now.
4 December
With the festive season approaching, my Manager invited the team to his place for a celebration. Shortly after confirming my attendance two weeks ago, I placed an order for what is said to be the best durian log cake in town. I picked up the pungent dessert earlier today and arrived on the dot at my Manager’s place.
At first, I was taken aback by its sheer size. The house was three storeys high, with a private pool and jacuzzi for the family, and a separate pool for their dog, Lotti. When I saw the lavish spread on the table, I began to feel unsure about the cake box in my hands. There were exquisite charcuterie boards filled with cured meats and cheeses, platters of sushi and sashimi, legs of glazed ham, an assortment of grilled sausages; even a fresh noodle station, where bowls of ramen were laid out, waiting to be bathed in piping hot broth.
My initial hesitation aside, it was an enjoyable evening for the most part. Colleagues brought their partners and children. Food was eaten. Drinks were had. Good-natured banter was made. Everyone was in high spirits. As the evening went on, my colleagues, and especially my Manager, started becoming more loquacious, taking on quite a different demeanour from that in the office.
In the midst of the merrymaking, my Manager made a shocking announcement: while he’s enjoyed working at The Institute for the past fourteen years, he’ll soon be leaving us. His last day is 19 February. I immediately did the math in my head. Only two months left of being able to work with him! Less, if I were to factor in the upcoming holidays. I must confess that I felt quite distraught upon realising this and had to go to the bathroom for a while.
By the time I rejoined the party, many of my colleagues had left and my Manager was offering cigars to the remaining guests. My body tensed up when my Manager approached with the open box in his hands. Despite everything that told me otherwise, I picked up a cigar, allowed it to be cut and lit, then brought it to my lips. I tried my best neither to cough, nor to cry. It’s a moment I’m not particularly proud of, though I’m not sure if it’s something I necessarily regret—but I shouldn’t digress.
While my Manager’s departure will be a loss for me and the team, I’m sincerely happy for him. He’ll be starting a new role at The Agency, where he’ll certainly go on to reach greater heights. Although it’s a pity I won’t get to work with him at The Institute past February, I’m thankful to have had the chance to cross paths with him at the start of my career and to have learnt so immensely much from him.
My Manager is truly the most accomplished and inspiring person I’ve ever met, and undoubtedly the best mentor I could ever have. Among so many things, he’s taught me to be future-ready—which is why I subscribed to The Agency’s newsletter immediately after leaving the party, trusting that sooner or later, a vacancy will open up in the department he’ll be heading.
THE ONLY CONSTANT
NADINE RECITES HER address and the taxi accelerates. As the vehicle transports her away from the airport and enters the expressway, her gaze shifts beyond the passenger window. Rows of perfectly trimmed trees pass her by. It’s the second time she is back in Singapore since leaving for London two years ago. Like the previous summer, she’s returned to serve her ten-week internship. But her mind is elsewhere, still wrapped in the memories of her last two weeks in Europe, although everything is now two flights away.
“Just came back from holiday ah?” the taxi driver asks.
Nadine glances up. Meeting his hooded eyes in the rearview mirror, she hesitates for a moment. “No lah,” she says, not wanting to continue the conversation.
But the taxi driver presses on. “You look so young. You studying overseas, is it?”
A soft sound of affirmation leaves her lips.
“Wah, so smart! Where you studying?”
The change in his tone reminds her of her parents’ pride. As she answers, she recalls how the weariness in her parents’ faces dissipated the moment they realised that their eldest child had not only gained admission to one of the top universities in England, but also, more importantly, been awarded a full government scholarship that would cover the tuition fees and living expenses. The image of their faces, bright with relief, induces a tender ache within her. She reminds herself that it’s a mere half-hour journey before she gets to see them and her sisters again.
“London,” the taxi driver repeats after her. “Nice, what you studying there?”
“Chemical engineering,” Nadine says, stiffening in her seat. In another life, she could have been pursuing a liberal arts degree. But here, in this one, she knows better than to let pragmatism take the back seat.
“Must be shiok to study overseas, huh?”
Nadine shrugs and remains silent. As her eyes return to the greenery passing outside the window, her mind drifts to memories of her first year at university. No one knows about her initial struggles to keep up academically, all the while attempting to feed herself, dress herself in clean clothes, call her family at least once a month, acclimatise to the dreary weather, and manage her finances and the intermittent bouts of homesickness.
Thankfully, things improved in her second year. Nadine found a rhythm to her days and even managed to set aside time for herself. Each Saturday, she would make her way to Hyde Park and spend the afternoon there—walking along the tree-lined pathways leading to the Serpentine, watching golden-haired children delight in observing squirrels and feeding ducks, while feeling an odd pang of loss when it dawned on her that this was a part of their childhood she’d never got to experience. When her feet ached, she would sit on a bench or on a spot of green, like the Londoners did on the rare days of sunshine. Then she would begin to fill the pages of her red leather notebook—one she’d got herself as a reward for surviving her first academic year. Sometimes, she wrote. Other times, she translated the landscapes before her into watercolour. Week after week, Nadine found herself returning to the park, where the changing hues and forms of foliage evoked the passing of time. There, she let her feelings flow—freely, furiously—into lines, into imagery, into poetry.
One autumnal evening, Nadine headed to her favourite bookshop to unwind after her last tutorial for the week. Separation Processes 2 was her least favourite core module, and that afternoon’s tutorial proved particularly gruelling. As she wandered along the shelves, she chanced upon a call for submissions from a literary magazine. The theme was “Change and Displacement”. The verses she’d written the preceding Saturday sprang to mind. There was a moment of hesitation before she scribbled down the submission details on the flesh of her palm, and yet another moment of doubt before she sent off her poems later that night.
“Your block is straight ahead?” The gruff voice of the taxi driver breaks into her reverie.
Nadine’s eyes refocus. It takes her a few moments before she realises that they’ve arrived in her neighbourhood. It’s only been a year since she last returned to Singapore, but she can barely recognise her surroundings. They drive by what used to be open fields; fenced plots now stand in their place, grey structures rising towards skies of molten blue. At the road junction ahead, the light turns from green to amber.
“Uncle, can turn left here before the traffic light, got shortcut.”
As she unzips her backpack to get her wallet, her fingers brush across her notebook. For a few moments, she allows her fingertips to linger over its soft leather, feeling a flutter of desire rise in her chest before the taxi comes to a stop at her block.
Nadine unlocks the door to find the flat empty. She wonders if her family has mixed up the dates of her return, but decides against calling anyone. Instead, she pulls her luggage into the bedroom she shares with her two sisters. Her wooden desk, which used to stand beside her lower bunk bed, has been moved to a corner, its surface barely visible under a clutter of paper, stationery and trinkets. Her mattress is piled with old clothes of hers that now belong to her sisters.
Nadine pushes the clothes aside, sits down on the edge of the bed and begins to unpack. From her bag she removes her laptop, her pencil case and her lecture notes on fluid mechanics, heavily highlighted in yellow. Then she finds in her hands a magazine whose cover features clouds of lavender grey. As she turns its pages, she recalls how she’d forgotten about her submission, given the increasing intensity of her coursework—until she received a response a month later, informing her that the magazine would like to publish her poetry. Days after her words appeared in print, she opened her inbox to find an email from someone named Matthias. He’d come across the literary magazine, read her trio of poems and felt compelled to write to her.
Nadine gazes at her words, trying to imagine how Matthias may have felt reading them. But before she reaches the end of the poem, she hears her mother calling out from the front door. She tucks the magazine into her bag with an urgency that doesn’t compromise on care. There’ll be time for it—later. With a smile on her face, she stands and heads in the direction of her mother’s voice.
At noon the next day, Nadine arrives at Maxwell Food Centre. Spotting an elderly couple about to finish their meal, she hurries over to secure the table. Seated, she glances at her watch. Mo—who Nadine still considers her BFF, though they’ve never used the term with each other—is late again, a habit she’s clearly kept up with. It occurs to Nadine that this is also where she met Mo the previous year. This time, they’ve chosen the place for its proximity to their favourite cinema, where they plan to catch the latest film adaptation of Alice in Wonderland after lunch.
Nadine rests her elbows on the table and fans herself with one hand, wondering what changes she might glimpse in her friend. Like her, Mo is also studying engineering. Electrical engineering, at Nanyang Technological University. They first became friends back in Secondary 3—the same year Mo moved to Singapore to study under a government scholarship—and went on to pick the same subject combination, at the same junior college, before their academic paths diverged slightly.
“Sorry I’m late!”
Nadine looks up to see Mo, clad in an orange tank top and denim shorts, her fringe plastered to her sweaty forehead. Having grown up in a region known for its frigid winters, Mo, even after over five years, is still becoming accustomed to the scorching heat of the tropics.
“Some things never change, huh?” Nadine says, teasing her friend before standing to embrace her.
Grinning, Mo sweeps her fringe from her flushed face. She fishes a pack of tissues out from her cherry red tote, tosses it on the table, then hooks an arm through Nadine’s. “Table chope already, let’s go order,” she says cheerfully.
As Nadine allows herself to be led through the crowd by Mo, it strikes her how fluent her friend has become in both Singlish and the local customs. She recalls how Mo struggled to adapt to her new environment back in secondary school, with English being the main language of instruction and the Singaporean accent that’d been so unfamiliar to her. She turns towards her friend, who is now ordering fish soup with the ease of a denizen.
