Chapter 1: Jet Lag and Jump Starts
The fluorescent lights hummed a note just below middle C, a relentless frequency that drilled directly into the jet-lag fog behind Matthew’s eyes. He stood at the periphery of the AP Singapore newsroom, clutching a cardboard tray of lukewarm coffees like a shield. It was a sprawling, vibrant chaos. The snick-snick of keyboards was a percussive backdrop to snippets of phone conversations in English, Mandarin, Malay. A stale whiff of recycled air mixed with the sharp, promising scent of fresh ink from a nearby printer churning out wire copy. He felt transparent, a ghost dressed in a rumpled Oxford shirt he’d bought in a panic at Changi Airport.
“You look,” a voice announced beside him, smooth as poured honey, “like someone just told you the entire concept of weekends was a myth.”
He turned. A woman leaned against a cubicle partition, arms crossed. She was dressed in a elegant, sharp dress of patterned lime and midnight blue which created colorful shadows which sent undulating delightful silouette throughout the open news-room lighting, her expression one of amused assessment.
“Is it that obvious?” Matthew managed, hefting the coffee tray. “I was aiming for ‘strategically weathered.’”
“You missed. You’re Matthew Callahan. Newly arrived from the wreckage of New York. I’m Liana Akpan.” She plucked a coffee from the tray without asking, took a sip, and made a face. “This is terrible. You’ll learn. Come on, Judy wants you alive, not comatose. Follow me.”
She moved with a fluid, unhurried confidence, weaving through the maze. “That’s features, they’re always laughing because their deadlines are next Tuesday,” she said, pointing. “Over there, politics. They never laugh. Avoid them before noon unless you enjoy existential despair with your caffeine.” She paused at a relatively tidy desk tucked beside a window offering a sliver view of towering skyscrapers. “This is you. Don’t get attached. They move us around to keep us from forming territorial bonds. Like goldfish.”
Matthew set the tray down. “And you? What’s your territory?”
“I’m general assignment. Which means I know everything about nothing and nothing about everything. It’s perfect. I’m also your unofficial onboarding committee.” She gave him a frank, appraising look. “So. The heartache.”
He blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“The relocation package. It’s usually one of three things: career ambition, family, or a catastrophic romantic derailment.” She tilted her head. “You don’t have the hungry glint of ambition just yet, and no one flees to family. So it’s the derailment. Spectacular?”
Matthew let out a short, surprised laugh. It felt strange in his chest. “It had its moments. A lawyer, an inappropriate colleague, a predictable but still unpleasant discovery.”
“Ah. The banality of betrayal. It’s the worst. Makes you feel stupid and sad.” Liana’s gaze softened for a microsecond.“Good. You’re free. Now you get to be miserable in a tropical climate. It’s better. The humidity gives your tears a glossy sheen.”
Before he could formulate a response, a man approached. He was tall, solidly built, moving with the quiet stability of a cargo ship. He had a day’s worth of dark stubble on a strong jaw, and his open collar revealed a thatch of chest hair. He carried two camera bodies slung across his broad chest like extensions of his own body.
“Mo, this is the New York casualty, Matthew Callahan,” Liana said. “Matthew, this is Moran Kilic. We call him Mo. He sees the world through a lens so Judy doesn’t have to send a writer to describe a pile of rubble. He can just show her.”
Mo’s eyes, a deep, warm brown, crinkled at the corners. “Welcome. Ignore at least half of what she says. The ratio is important but you’ll have to discover which half yourself.” His voice was a low, pleasant rumble with a faint, unplaceable accent.
He extended a hand. Matthew took it. Mo’s grip was firm, his palm broad and slightly calloused. The handshake lasted a beat longer than was strictly professional. It wasn’t awkward; it was deliberate. A warmth radiated from the contact, a simple, human solidity that cut through the sterile air-conditioning and the synthetic buzz of the lights. A static spark, tiny and sharp, jumped where their palms met.
“Oh,” Matthew said, more a surprised exhale than a word.
“Sorry,” Mo said, but he didn’t let go immediately. His thumb brushed briefly over Matthew’s knuckle, a casual, unintended-seeming stroke. “Dry air and nylon carpets. They build up a charge.”
Matthew pulled his hand back, the ghost of that touch lingering on his skin. His carefully constructed emotional barriers, the ones he’d reinforced on the fifteen-hour flight with a wall of in-flight movies and logic, didn’t so much crack as experience a sudden, localized short-circuit. It was just a handshake. A spark. An observation about carpeting.
But for a fleeting second, he wasn’t the jaded newcomer nursing a quiet hurt. He was just a man, meeting another man, in a room full of light and sound, and something in his blood had hummed in recognition.
Mo was still looking at him, that same quiet assessment in his eyes. “Liana’s right about the coffee, by the way. There’s a stall downstairs run by a man named Mr.Lim. He’ll change your life. Or at least your morning.”
“I’ll… note that,” Matthew said, his voice finding its footing again.
Liana watched the exchange, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face. She said nothing. She didn’t have to.
Just then, Matthew’s phone buzzed in his pocket. A New York number. He silenced it without looking, the moment breaking. The world rushed back in—the clatter of keys, the ringing phones, the vast, unfamiliar city outside the window.
But the imprint of the spark remained. A tiny, persistent point of heat in the cool, foreign room.
A tiny, persistent point of heat in the cool, foreign room.
“Callahan. My office. Now, before the caffeine fully abandons your bloodstream.” The voice was familiar, a warm bark from across the room. Judy Cherry stood in the doorway of a glass-walled corner office, her short, grey hair looking sculpted by sheer force of will. She gave him a crooked smile and vanished inside.
Matthew’s stomach performed a minor, jet-lagged flip. He shot a glance at Liana, who mimed a gentle throat-slash and waved him on.
Judy’s office was a haven of controlled chaos. Walls were lined with framed front pages and prestigious awards, but the desk was a topography of paper, empty mugs, and a single, thriving orchid. She didn’t sit, instead leaning against the front of her desk as Matthew entered.
“Close the door.Sit. Don’t look so terrified, I don’t bite the new ones until at least week two.” She studied him, her eyes sharp but not unkind. “God, it’s good to see you in three dimensions. Zoom is a poor substitute for human presence.”
“It’s good to be here, Judy. Really.” He meant it, despite the disorientation.
“I bet it is. A whole ocean away from that prick.” She said it casually, turning to pour water from a carafe into two glasses. She handed him one. “I’m thrilled you’re here, Matthew. Not just for you, though Christ knows you needed the exit. For me. This bureau needs your curiosity. Your voice. New York kept you polished, but I think it made you a little… cautious.”
Matthew took a sip, the water tasteless and perfect. “Cautious is a kind word for it.”
“It ends today. You’re not covering Wall Street filings or Manhattan real estate wars. You’re in a city-state built on a swamp, a cultural synapse. I want you to find the stories in the gaps. The old woman who remembers the kampong villages under all this glass. The shipping magnate betting on algae as fuel. The tension between the immaculate sidewalks and the messy human hearts beating under them.” She leaned forward. “You have a good eye. Use it. And lean on Mo. He’s been here five years. He knows where the light falls, and more importantly, where the shadows are.”
The mention of Mo brought the feeling of that handshake back, a tactile memory. Matthew nodded. “I will.”
“Good.Now go. Pretend to work. Your inbox is a horror show.” She smiled, a real one that reached her eyes. “Welcome home, Matthew.”
The words settled in him, unfamiliar and warm. He returned to his cube, the undefined space slowly becoming his. He logged into his computer, the whirl of unfamiliar passwords and protocols a welcome distraction. He stacked his notebooks, angled his keyboard, placed the sad tray of coffees in the communal kitchen where it belonged.
He was deep in the bureaucratic swamp of setting up his local health insurance portal when Liana’s face appeared over the cubicle wall.
“The system has consumed enough of your soul for one morning.Lunch. You’re coming.”
“I should probably—”
“Eat? Yes, you should. Mo knows a place in Lavender. It’s not in any guidebook. They have duck rice that will make you weep. And we can continue your cultural education.” She was already putting her bag over her shoulder, leaving no room for argument.
Mo was waiting by the elevators, a worn leather satchel slung across his chest, replacing the cameras. He nodded, that same quiet acknowledgment. “You survived Judy.”
“Barely.”
The midday Singapore heat hit them in the lobby like a wet blanket. It was a physical presence, thick and heavy, scented with exhaust, blooming frangipani, and the savory aroma of street food from a nearby hawker centre. They walked a few blocks, the city a blur of mirrored glass and lush vertical gardens, before ducking into a narrow shophouse. A ceiling fan churned the aromatic air inside a cramped, bustling eatery. Red plastic stools, Formica tables stained with years of spice.
They ordered at the counter in a rapid mix of English and what Matthew assumed was Hokkien, Mo doing the talking. They found a tiny table tucked near a roaring fan.
“So,” Liana began, digging into a plate of shimmering char kway teow, “the critical rules. Never jaywalk. Seriously, the fines are tragic. Always carry a packet of tissues—to reserve a table at a hawker centre like this one. It’s a sacred system.”
“And never,” Mo added, handing Matthew a pair of chopsticks, “comment on the humidity. It’s our version of small talk about the weather, but everyone has already thought it. It’s redundant.”
Matthew laughed, fumbling with the chopsticks before getting a grip. “Noted. No jaywalking, tissue-pack hegemony, and no stating the obvious about the air being soup.”
“See, he learns fast,” Liana said to Mo.
Their banter was effortless, a seamless volley of wry observations about expat life, bureaucracy, and the peculiarities of Singaporean cinema. Mo spoke less, but when he did, it was with a dry, insightful humour. He described a recent assignment photographing a community of kite-makers in a soon-to-be-demolished neighbourhood, his words painting pictures more vivid than any report.
“The old man’s hands were like the maps of the place,” Mo said, his eyes tracking a memory. “Every wrinkle, a street that no longer exists. I just tried to keep up.”
Matthew found himself watching Mo’s hands as he spoke—capable, scarred by a tiny white line near the thumb, gesturing with a calm precision. He noticed the way Mo’s laughter started deep in his chest, a soft rumble before it reached his lips. He saw the intelligent warmth in his eyes, the way he listened, truly listened, to Liana’s stories.
A spark, banked from the morning, began to glow again in Matthew’s gut. It was more than physical. It was the quiet competence, the rooted calm Mo seemed to carry in this dizzying city. It was profoundly, dangerously attractive.
And that’s when the wall came down. Not with a crash, but with the cold, familiar weight of recent history.
This is how it starts, a voice in his head whispered, the voice that sounded suspiciously like his own post-breakup cynicism. A little attention, a nice laugh, a shared lunch. You felt a spark with Patrick once, too. You built a whole life on that spark, and look at the fucking ashes.
The warmth he was feeling curdled into a defensive chill. He couldn’t.Not now. The wound was too fresh, the trust too fractured. To feel this faint pull toward someone new wasn't liberating; it was a trapdoor waiting to open. He was here to work, to rebuild himself, not to plunge into another uncertain emotional gamble.
So he pushed it down. He shoved the flicker of attraction into a mental box marked "Later (Probably Never)" and locked it. He focused on the food, the explosive flavours of chili and garlic and sweet soy. He doubled down on his questions about the city, steering the conversation firmly into the safety of the anecdotal.
When Mo’s knee accidentally brushed against his under the small table, Matthew flinched back as if shocked, immediately covering it with a reach for his iced tea.
Mo noticed. A subtle shift, a barely perceptible softening of his expression, not into offense, but into something like understanding. He gave Matthew a small, unreadable smile before turning his attention back to Liana’s story about a disastrous press conference involving escaped otters.
The lunch ended. The walk back to the office was louder, filled with Liana’s plans for the weekend. Matthew walked beside them, a polite smile on his face, participating in the conversation.
But inside, he was building a fort. And the first brick was the firm, resolute denial of the magnetic pull of the quiet man walking beside him, whose shoulder occasionally, accidentally, brushed against his own in the crowded street.
And the first brick was the firm, resolute denial of the magnetic pull of the quiet man walking beside him, whose shoulder occasionally, accidentally, brushed against his own in the crowded street.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of administrative dread. Forms. HR videos about cybersecurity. Setting up his official bureau email signature. By the time the sky outside the window shifted from hard blue to a smudged charcoal dusk, Matthew’s eyes were gritty and his neck was tight. The newsroom’s energy had changed, the daytime hustle mellowing into a quieter, more focused nocturnal hum.
“You’re dead on your feet,” Liana observed, swinging her bag onto her shoulder. “Go. Unpack a box. Stare at a wall. It’s a vital part of the process.”
Mo was still at his desk, his face illuminated by the soft glow of a large monitor as he culled through a day’s worth of shots. He gave a small, backward wave without turning around, a silent acknowledgement. Matthew found himself hesitating for half a second, a ridiculous impulse to say something more, to explain his jumpiness at lunch. He crushed it. “See you tomorrow,” he called to the room, receiving a few murmured replies.
His apartment was in a nondescript modern block in Tiong Bahru, a short MRT ride away. It was clean, white-walled, and echoed. Two suitcases lay gutted on the living room floor, their contents forming archaeologically distinct piles: clothes, books, a few framed photos face-down. He’d bought a cheap sofa and a bed. That was it. The space felt less like a home and more like a transit lounge for his life.
He ordered fish soup from a delivery app and ate it straight from the container, standing at the kitchen counter. The silence was immense. In New York, there was always sirens, the thrum of a neighbor’s bass, the city itself breathing outside your window. Here, the silence was sealed, air-conditioned, profound. It made the buzz of his phone on the marble countertop sound like a bone drill.
PATRICK CELL.
He stared at the screen. The soup turned to paste in his mouth. He could let it go to voicemail. He should let it go to voicemail. But the silence was so loud, and a perverse, weary part of him wanted to shatter it. He swiped accept.
“Matt. You answered.” Patrick’s voice was exactly the same. A rich, confident baritone that used to feel like a safe harbor. Now it just felt like a well-recognised trap.
“Patrick.”
“How’s the other side of the planet? You settled in?”
“It’s day one. ‘Settled’ is a stretch. The apartment has walls. That’s the current highlight.”
A short, hollow laugh. “Sounds thrilling. Listen, I… I just wanted to hear your voice. Make sure you got there in one piece.”
“I did. In one piece.”
The line hummed with trans-pacific static. “Look, Matt. I’ve been thinking. This whole thing… it’s so extreme. You didn’t need to blow your entire life up. To move to Singapore, for God’s sake. We’re adults. We could have worked through this. Together.”
The words, so predictable, landed with a fresh thud of irritation. Matthew put the soup container down. He walked to the large window, staring out at the geometric grid of lighted windows in the blocks opposite, a thousand anonymous lives.
“You keep missing the point, Patrick. You blew it up. You lit the fuse with Mark from Mergers & Acquisitions. I just moved out of the crater.”
“It was a mistake!” The plea was instant, polished from repetition. “A stupid, shitty, mid-life panic mistake. I have apologized a million times. I am apologizing now. It’s over. It was over the second you found out. He means nothing.”
“It’s not about him,” Matthew said, his voice low and steady. “It’s about you. And me. And the fact that ‘working through it’ just meant me swallowing the humiliation while you got to feel forgiven. The geography helps.”
“So let me make it right. Let me come there. Let’s talk, face to face. I can get time off. I—”
“No.” The word came out flat, final. “You don’t get to parachute into my fresh start. I need this space. I need to not be ‘Matt-and-Patrick’ for a while. I just need to be Matthew. Alone.”
The silence this time was thick, charged with Patrick’s wounded pride. “Alone,” he echoed, as if it were a diagnosis. “Fine. I hear you. I’m not giving up, you know.”
“I know.”
They exchanged a few more vacant pleasantries—comments on the weather, a mutual friend’s promotion—the ghost of their old small talk haunting the line. When he finally hung up, Matthew felt drained. The conversation was a psychic tether, yanking him back into a room he’d spent months trying to escape.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window. Below, the city was a river of taillights and neon. A sleek train, silent as a centipede, slid along an elevated track. He could hear the distant, rhythmic chime of a pedestrian crossing signal. The adventure, Judy had called it.
He thought of Mo’s laugh, a rumble felt more than heard. The accidental spark of their handshake. The intelligent patience in his eyes as he talked about lost streets and kite-makers. It wasn’t a plan. It wasn’t even a hope. It was just a flicker, a single pinprick of light in the vast, unfamiliar grid of the city.
One day at a time. One story at a time. Maybe, eventually, one breath at a time without this old, familiar weight on his chest.
He took a deep breath. The night air, viewed through sealed glass, promised nothing. But it promised it quietly, and on his own terms. That was enough for now.