The night was alive with rain and thunder. Kuala Lumpur’s suburbs seemed drenched in silver sheets as traffic crawled through flooded streets. Outside Berjaya Times Square, Aman stood once again without an umbrella, his shirt already clinging to his skin, his hair plastered across his forehead. The Imbi Monorail station was just a few minutes away, but the sky had turned into an unforgiving waterfall.
For ten minutes, he hovered under the mall’s entrance, watching the crowd scatter into taxis, buses, and the shelter of umbrellas. The last train to Butterworth was in less than half an hour, and KL Sentral was still three stations away. He sighed, tightened his backpack straps, and decided there was no point waiting anymore. The rain would win, as it always did.
By the time he reached KL Sentral, his shoes squelched with every step. He sprinted toward the KTM Komuter terminal, weaving through the crowd, lungs burning. The clock ticked cruelly close to departure. And then, it happened.
Someone slammed into him, hard. A blur of dark hair, hurried steps, and a frantic face. Aman muttered an apology even though it wasn’t his fault, ready to push ahead. But then — he froze.
It was her.
The woman from the Camry. The woman whose voice had echoed in his head for days, whose laughter had lingered longer than it should.
For a second, the chaos of KL Sentral dissolved. The loudspeaker announcements, the shuffle of hundreds of feet, the clatter of luggage — all fell silent. There was only her face, flushed from running, eyes burning with urgency. She didn’t see him. She was already rushing past, chasing something he couldn’t see. And then, twenty meters away, she stopped.
Her arms flew up in despair. The departure board flickered: her train had left. She cursed under her breath in Malay, then dropped onto a bench, burying her face in her palms.
Aman stood rooted, the minutes slipping through his fingers. His own train, the last one to Butterworth — was gone. The realization hit like the rain outside: he had missed it.
But for some reason, he didn’t care.
Slowly, almost against his will, he walked toward her. She looked up as his shadow fell across her, her brows furrowed in confusion. He smiled, awkward but sincere.
“Looks like I’m not the only one the rain hates,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed for a second, trying to place him. Then recognition dawned. “Oh, that Indian guy without an umbrella,” she murmured.
He nodded. “Aman.”
She hesitated before extending her hand. “Lina.”
Both had missed their last trains — hers to Malacca, his to Butterworth. There was nothing to do now but wait until morning. Somehow, the shared misfortune felt like fate’s mischievous trick.
They began laughing about their folly, cursing the weather, trading jabs about their poor planning. Lina playfully pointed at his dripping shirt. “Still no umbrella? You really didn’t learn, did you?”
Soon hunger gnawed at them, and they wandered to the McDonald’s near the terminal. Over burgers and fries, the conversation shifted. At first it was light—the oddities of Malaysian weather, the quirks of Grab drivers, the absurdity of their situation. But as the rain outside softened, their words began to sharpen.
Through the glass, a young couple quarreled loudly, the girl storming away as the boy followed helplessly. Lina chuckled. “Ever been in that situation?”
Aman flushed, looking down at his soda. “Not exactly. Let’s just say… I’ve had my fair share of being dumped. Once, a girl broke up with me because I couldn’t tell a latte from a cappuccino.”
Lina laughed, the sound warm and disarming. “That’s tragic… and ridiculous.”
An hour passed like minutes. Neither wanted the night to end. To stretch time, they slipped into a nearby 7-Eleven, pooling change to buy a crate of Tiger beer. Six cans clinked together, cold and full of promise. They found an empty corner of the station complex, away from the crowd, where the shadows offered privacy and the hum of distant trains was their only witness.
With each can opened, their laughter grew louder, their stories bolder. Aman told silly tales of college misadventures and work blunders. Lina teased him relentlessly for his inability to survive a Malaysian rainstorm without disaster.
But then, as the last can hissed open, Aman asked something more personal, almost without thinking. “So… what about you? Ever had someone yell at you in the rain like that couple?”
The question lingered in the damp night air. Lina fell silent, her fingers tightening around the can. For a moment, Aman regretted it. He tried to backtrack, to lighten the mood—but she cut him off with a slow, steady voice.
“I was engaged once,” she said quietly. “His name was Azlan.”
She stared into the distance, her expression unreadable. “He was on the flight to Beijing. MH370.”
The words hit Aman like a punch. He opened his mouth, but no words came.
“I waited for months,” she continued, her voice trembling now. “Hoping, praying. But there was nothing. Just silence. It’s been years, but sometimes…” Her voice cracked. “…sometimes it feels like I’m still waiting at that airport.”
The rain outside had stopped by then, but inside, the air felt heavy, thick with unspoken grief. Aman sat quietly, letting her words hang between them, knowing some silences were meant to be honored.
And in that silence, something fragile and new took root.
To be continued…
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