Author’s note
Teacher’s Day Thoughts for Chapter 39, “The Woman Who Needed a Different Kind of Love”
Posting this slightly early ahead of Teacher’s Day on Friday, 5 September 2025, here in Singapore.
Not just to say “thank you” to the teachers who shaped me, but also to talk about something most people never see… the human side of teachers when the classroom lights go off.
“Elaine” isn’t just one person. She’s the sum of stories I’ve heard from friends in education, those intelligent, dedicated souls, quietly carrying more than their fair share of loneliness.
The problem? Their job is all-consuming. Marking till midnight. CCAs and extra classes on weekends. A social circle that begins and ends with other teachers. You don’t realise how fast a decade can go until one day you wake up and the only people you speak to daily are kids and colleagues.
Elaine’s story isn’t about some dramatic, movie-style romance; it’s about a connection that mattered, even if it wasn’t forever. It’s about remembering that sometimes you’re just the bridge… the person who helps someone else cross into the next chapter of their life. And there’s no shame in that.
On a day like Teacher’s Day, it’s worth saying this out loud: Teachers aren’t just “Miss Tan from 3A” or “Mr Lim the Discipline Master.” They’re people with their own dreams, regrets, and yes, their own needs. Some want marriage, some want companionship, some just want to feel alive again after years of routine.
So if you know a teacher who’s been giving everything to their students… check in. Invite them out. Introduce them to someone. At worst, you brighten their day. At best, you might just change their life.
Because love doesn’t always walk in through the school gates.
Sometimes it’s waiting outside, but you have to be willing to step out to find it.
Author’s note 2
Throughout my life I’ve met women at both ends of life’s spectrum. These chapters 38 and 39 were particularly distinct in the different lessons I learned.
One was barely out of junior college, full of restless energy, baby fat still on her cheeks, eager to test the power of her smile. With her, I learnt a rule that’s not sexy but could save your future (and reputation), that is
never to assume, always verify
. Age, consent, boundaries… these aren’t small talk. One wrong guess can turn into a headline you’ll never live down. I made it a habit after that: ask twice, be sure, then decide if you still want to take the step.
The other was a seasoned secondary school teacher, late 30s, calm, modest, and carrying the kind of loneliness that doesn’t shout but quietly settles in. With her, I learnt that
not every connection is meant to be yours
. We shared warmth, trust, and intimacy… but I saw also that she wanted more than I could give. So I introduced her to a friend who could. They clicked. And I was content to have been the bridge, not the destination.
Different ages. Different stages. Different lessons.
But one truth kept coming back to me:
Clarity before commitment. Respect for her journey. And the wisdom to walk away when it’s the right thing to do.
Because real charm isn’t just in starting something.
It’s in knowing when to leave the party with your reputation intact…
and your name far away from tomorrow’s headlines.
It has been 13 years since this online vice ring broke out. It is a matter of time till the next one:
Chapter 40: The Girl with the Puppy
https://freeimage.host/i/KJ8eZsj
(AI-generated image of Janelle)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
Some connections don’t begin with fireworks; they begin with proximity.
Janelle lived three floors above me in the same rental HDB block in Tiong Bahru.
Slim, fair-skinned, always in sporty shorts and tank tops, walking a fluffy white dog that looked more like a soft toy than a creature of instinct.
“Milo,” she said, when I asked the dog’s name. “Because he’s sweet and hyper.”
I chuckled politely.
I had never been a pet person.
But she didn’t know that yet.
I noticed her during my evening jogs, around the estate, always ending with me pouring sweat into my tank top, headphones in, thoughts out.
She noticed me first.
“You run like someone trying to outrun something,” she said once.
“Deadlines,” I replied.
⸻
We started talking.
Then walking.
Then splitting kaya toast and teh-C at the old-school coffee shop downstairs.
Janelle had just started her first job in a PR firm.
Twenty-two. Fresh out of poly. Full of energy, optimism, and dreams of starting a dog café someday.
She wore scented lip gloss. Listened to Mariah Carey on her Discman. Thought I was “
very mature
” for a guy still renting a flat with yellowing walls and a creaky ceiling fan.
We flirted.
She’d tap my arm when she laughed.
Held her gaze just a bit longer than necessary.
And so one evening, I invited her over.
“Hope you don’t mind Milo tagging along,” she said, stepping in with a bottle of Diet Coke and the dog bouncing beside her.
I minded.
But I didn’t show it.
Milo sniffed everything: my shoes, my laundry basket, my mugs.
He jumped on the couch like he owned it.
And barked at my fan when it oscillated.
I smiled through it.
Janelle opened the bottle. We sat cross-legged on the floor, sipping coke and talking about our worst bosses, our favourite hawker stalls, and the ridiculousness of beeper codes.
⸻
We moved to the mattress in my bedroom.
Milo curled up in the corner.
I tried to ignore his small, twitching breaths.
When she kissed me, it was unhesitating, sweetened with Coke, and edged with the faint berry taste of her lip gloss. Her lips were soft but insistent, as though she’d been thinking about this for days.
I slid an arm around her waist, feeling the warmth of her body through her tank top, the quickening of her breath against my cheek. She responded in kind, fingers tracing the back of my neck, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.
We made our way to the mattress. Milo curled up in the corner, a silent witness.
She pulled her top over her head with a half-laugh, half-gasp when it got momentarily caught, tossing it aside with carefree ease. Her skin was warm under my hands, baby-smooth, lightly scented with the faintest trace of soap and summer air. I kissed along the curve of her neck, down to her shoulder, feeling the shiver run through her.
Her laughter softened into sighs as my fingertips trailed along her hips, exploring slowly, unhurriedly. She leaned into me, her nails brushing down my back in delicate lines, as if testing how much sensation she could give in return.
When I finally entered her, it was with an easy rhythm, not urgent, but deliberate, letting her adjust, letting her guide the pace. She met me movement for movement, her eyes closed, mouth parted, breathing deep and steady as we found our cadence. It was playful at moments, tender at others, like she was learning the contours of pleasure as we went, and I was learning hers.
When it ended, she lay on her side, cheeks flushed, the rise and fall of her chest still quick from the afterglow. Milo padded over and curled into the crook of her knees.
She smiled, stroking his fur, while I lay back and caught my breath, half-amused, half-resigned at having shared the moment with both of them.
⸻
We continued seeing each other over the next few weeks.
She’d bring Milo over.
I’d try not to stiffen when he jumped on me.
She’d tell stories from work, playfully mocking her colleagues.
I’d smile and listen.
But there was a gap.
She was full of chirpy plans.
I was trying to pay my monthly rent and stop eating Maggi Mee three times a week.
She lived for the weekend.
I was trying to catch up on sleep.
One afternoon, she frowned as Milo pawed at me and I gently nudged him away.
“You’ve never really petted him properly,” she said.
“I’m trying,” I replied, honestly. “But I just… don’t connect with pets.”
She paused. “He’s my
best friend
.”
I nodded.
That made it harder, not easier.
A few days later, she paged me.
“
Call me when free.
”
So I did, from the public phone under the block.
She picked up on the second ring. Her voice was soft, hesitant.
“You’re great, really. But loving me means loving him too. And I think we both know this isn’t going to work.”
I exhaled.
“I understand. Wishing you and Milo all the best.”
No drama.
No bitterness.
Just clarity.
⸻
Janelle taught me that relationships aren’t just about chemistry.
They’re about lifestyle… the small, quiet things that we think we can tolerate… until we can’t.
And sometimes, it’s better to part while the fondness is still intact.
Before it curdles into resentment.
Because love isn’t just about who we want in our bed. It’s about who we can bear sharing a life, and a living room, with.
⸻
[End of Chapter 40]
Mirror Site:
Author’s note:
This next chapter was one of the hardest for me to write.
Not because it’s scandalous, or wild, or even particularly dramatic… but because it’s about the one woman (
at that point in time
) I came the closest to building a life with… and didn’t.
It forced me to revisit a time in my late twenties when the pace of my life slowed, when I stopped chasing, and when I genuinely thought marriage was on the horizon. Writing it brought back the quiet dinners, the small shared routines, the plans we never realised, and the moment it all ended, not from betrayal or anger, but from choices neither of us could change.
Some pain fades with time. This one didn’t; it simply changed shape.
But I don’t regret writing about it. Through pain, there’s growth. Through loss, there’s learning.
If Chapter 41 feels different from the others, it’s because it is.
It’s not a conquest story; it’s the story of
the one I almost proposed to
.
Chapter 41: The One I Almost Proposed To (1996–1998)
https://freeimage.host/i/Kdc9irb
(AI-generated image of Angela)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
She entered my life just before the world began to tilt.
It was 1996.
Before Suharto fell. Before currencies crashed. Before the words “
Asian Financial Crisis
” made front-page headlines and struck fear into otherwise untouchable boardrooms.
I was in my late twenties, living alone in a modest rental HDB flat in Tiong Bahru.
Still wearing office shirts until the cuffs frayed, still catching the last bus home after working late at my consultancy firm… the kind that took pride in overpromising deliverables and underpaying staff.
That was when I met Angela.
She wasn’t Singaporean.
Born in Shenzhen, raised in Hong Kong, studying for her Masters in Singapore on a private scholarship at one of our Universities.
She spoke English with a faint British lilt and Mandarin with that lilting, clipped cadence unique to Cantonese speakers.
She was composed, not shy, but careful.
Big eyes, sharper cheekbones, and a voice low enough to make people lean in when she spoke.
We met at a joint course on ASEAN-China economic integration, part of a pilot run hosted at the old World Trade Centre.
She sat next to me during the session on WTO accession.
Ribbed cardigan, flared jeans, wire-thin glasses.
She barely looked up, her notebook filled with dense handwriting in two languages.
We talked during the coffee break.
We flirted, hesitantly.
And two weeks later, we kissed in the rain outside the MRT entrance at Tanjong Pagar.
She was the first woman I stopped seeing others for.
The courtship was slow… no overnight clothes, no toothbrushes at each other’s place.
But within three months, we were spending most weekends together.
She’d show up with groceries, with cherry tomatoes, instant noodles, red apples, and insist on making me simple stir-fried dishes that reminded her of home.
She always washed up after.
Angela’s body was supple and slim, the kind of frame that moved with fluid precision, as if she’d danced once but never bragged about it.
The first night we made love, she paused before undressing, as though giving me a chance to back out.
But I didn’t. I just kissed her collarbone… slowly… then massaged her nape, and ears, until she exhaled into my left ear and pressed herself closer.
Our rhythm was unhurried.
She liked to be touched softly, first, along the inside of her thighs, then under her ribs, and then behind her knees.
She rarely moaned, but her breathing deepened, and she always looked into my eyes when she climaxed, not with performance, but with focus, like she was memorising the moment.
She stayed the night.
And then again the next weekend.
And before long, we were spending Chinese New Year, Mid-Autumn Festival, and even National Day together.
For two years, I didn’t stray.
Not once.
And for someone who had been with dozens by then, it surprised even me.
In late 1997, as Thailand’s baht collapsed and the Straits Times ran back-to-back coverage of regional economies faltering, our intimacy deepened.
Angela’s father lost half his retirement savings in the Hang Seng crash.
My company paused hiring and froze bonuses.
We both felt the walls close in, and clung to each other harder.
She changed with the times, by 1998 she’d replaced her flared jeans with sleek narrow skirts, sleeveless black turtlenecks, and kitten heels.
She kept her luscious hair long, and dyed it chestnut.
People noticed her now, not just for her looks, but the quiet intensity she carried with her.
We never officially moved in together, but my wardrobe began to host her cardigans, and her toothbrush lived in my bathroom cup.
I stopped going out.
I stopped flirting.
I even stopped writing in my logbook, the one where I used to scribble initials and post-encounter reflections.
Angela wasn’t a reflection.
She was a presence.
I began to think seriously,
terrifyingly
, about marriage.
I visited Lee Hwa and looked at rings.
Nothing extravagant. Just enough.
I even ran the math: CPF savings, possible resale flat under the one of the HDB schemes, or maybe applying for a new one as we qualified as first-timers.
And then, in the middle of 1998, everything changed.
We were having a quiet dinner, she’d made congee with century egg and fried shallots.
The news was on in the background: Suharto had just resigned. Singapore’s GDP was contracting for the first time in years.
Angela stirred her bowl, then said, barely above a whisper:
“I’m going back to Hong Kong.”
I blinked. “For a holiday?”
She shook her head. “For work.”
A multinational firm had just offered her a spot in their Hong Kong office, analyst track, fast promotion, better pay, closer to her mother. Singapore was looking like a backwater.
At first, I thought it was madness.
Hong Kong in 1998 was reeling, its GDP had just plunged nearly 6%, unemployment was climbing past 5%, and the Hang Seng had shed more than half its value. Singapore wasn’t doing great either, as we were in our first recession since independence, but our fall was gentler, and jobs felt a little more secure.
But for someone like Angela, the draw was clear. Hong Kong was still the beating heart of Asia’s deal-making, with a density of multinational headquarters Singapore couldn’t match at the time. The firm courting her had a global name, a bigger analyst track, faster promotion, and a direct line to clients across China… a market every strategist was calling the next gold rush.
Singapore was safe.
Hong Kong was risk and reward.
And Angela had never been one to choose the smaller stage.
I understood it on paper: the pay, the title, the network she’d build.
But in my chest, it felt like watching the tide pull away the one boat I’d finally wanted to keep.
I could offer her love, weekends in East Coast Park, the safety of a country that had weathered the storm better.
Hong Kong could offer her the future she’d worked for since she first left home.
And between love and ambition, ambition won.
Not because she loved me less, but because she loved the life she’d dreamed of more.
I tried to find the right words.
Asked if she’d consider staying.
Told her I could try applying for a job in Hong Kong.
Suggested we try long distance, even just for a while.
She didn’t argue.
She just took my hand and said:
“I love what we have. I just… don’t think it can grow any further here.”
We spent one final weekend together.
We walked along East Coast Park, rented a tandem bike, shared ice cream at Parkway Parade.
Our last night together was slow and wordless.
We kissed for a long time before we touched each other.
When I entered her, she cried, not from pain, but from something she didn’t explain.
And when she came, she pulled my head into her shoulder and held me there, like she wanted to keep part of me in her skin.
She left on a Tuesday morning.
At Changi, we didn’t make a scene.
No long tears, no desperate pleas.
Just a tight hug.
A soft kiss.
And the scent of her still clinging to my shirt long after the plane had left the tarmac.
⸻
Angela taught me what it meant to be still.
To stop chasing.
To be content with the slow bloom of something that didn’t need adrenaline to feel alive.
She also taught me that even love that feels real can have an expiry date.
Not because it’s weak, but because the world sometimes demands choices love can’t protect against.
I kept the receipt for the ring I never bought.
Wet with tears of a love that would never be.
And for years after, whenever someone (
who knows of my past
) asked me if I had ever been in love in my youth:
I didn’t answer.
I just thought of Angela,
and the quiet life we almost had,
before the world, and we, changed.
⸻
[End of Chapter 41]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 42: The Marathon Phase Begins (1998 onwards)
https://freeimage.host/i/K2qy337
(AI-generated image of the Marathon)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
There are phases in life you don’t name until much later.
This was one of them.
After Angela, I changed.
Not immediately.
But quietly. Irrevocably.
Like a compass needle knocked off true north, still spinning, still pointing somewhere, but never quite the same again.
It was 1998, and the cracks in the region’s economy had deepened into canyons.
The Asian Financial Crisis was in full swing.
Thailand’s baht had collapsed.
Indonesia was in chaos.
Singapore, though more stable, wasn’t spared: retrenchments, hiring freezes, CPF cuts.
Everyone was either getting laid off or sent for skills training.
I figured I should get ahead of the curve.
So I quit my job, and went back to school.
A full-time master’s degree.
For something that sounded respectable, recession-proof, and perhaps most importantly: a legitimate reason to lie low while the world recalibrated.
I told my parents it was for “
career progression
.”
Told my friends it was a “
strategic pause
.”
But deep down, I needed the space.
I needed time.
I needed to stop pretending that Angela’s departure hadn’t hollowed me out.
I told myself I would focus.
Be better.
More present.
More grounded.
Instead, I became sharper.
Hungrier.
More deliberate.
Before Angela, I had drifted from encounter to encounter with a kind of careless grace.
Some nights were lucky. Others weren’t.
I had been a Casanova, yes, but a gentle one. Opportunistic, not obsessive.
But now?
Now, I
chased
.
It wasn’t just about desire.
It was about reclamation, of control, of confidence, of my ability to seduce, to be wanted, to choose.
I transformed.
Cut my hair short.
Switched to cotton shirts that fit well at the shoulders.
Stopped drinking Tiger beer in coffee shops. Switched to gin when I could afford it.
Started jogging every morning, East Coast on weekends, Tiong Bahru loops on weekdays.
I paid attention to the little things:
Posture. Breath. Eye contact.
I upgraded from soap to cologne.
Acqua di Gio
. The scent of late-90s ambition.
And I started to notice the signs again.
How a woman would brush her fringe behind her ear just before laughing.
The shift in tone when someone said “You’re funny…” versus “You’re different.”
The unspoken
yes
that sometimes came long before the words.
I became a predator in the most polished sense.
Charming. Respectful.
But always moving toward the next encounter.
Group work sessions turned into private dinners.
Post-seminar drinks became one-on-one late-night walks.
I never pushed. I never lied.
But I never waited, either.
And I told myself it was okay.
Everyone was adult.
Everyone was consenting.
No lines were crossed.
But I was no longer being casual.
I was being intentional, and underneath that,
compulsive
.
My classmates thought I was just “
good with women
.”
They didn’t know I had stopped going home just to avoid sitting alone with the silence.
That I had begun logging encounters like a ritual.
Not names (
just initials
), but moments. Frequencies.
That my real hobby, besides self-care, had become the
pursuit
itself.
If there was a woman I hadn’t spoken to, I saw her as unfinished business.
If I went more than two weeks without a connection, I felt anxious.
And when someone didn’t reciprocate, I felt… disappointed. Not hurt. Just inconvenienced.
The intimacy no longer mattered as much.
The conquest did.
My master’s degree would go well.
I would score decently. Present confidently.
But I wasn’t there to learn.
I was there to rebuild my identity.
And I built it from desire.
It was only later, much later, that I’d admit to myself how empty it was.
How performative.
How I had mistaken motion for healing.
But back then?
Back then, I believed the only way to move on from heartbreak was to bury it beneath a pile of moments I wouldn’t remember.
And many trysts later… I was reminded that the most dangerous women are not the ones who resist you…
But the ones who make
you
want to resist them.
⸻
[End of Chapter 42]
Mirror Site:
Chapter 43: The One Who Wanted Out (Business Trip to Shanghai)
https://freeimage.host/i/K2itzOJ
(AI-generated image of Lili)
Disclaimer: All names, characters, and events in this chapter are fictional, although inspired by the lived experiences and memories of the protagonist. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Settings and timelines have been adapted for narrative purposes.
I never expected to become someone’s exit plan.
It was close to the autumn, and China, especially Shanghai, was on the edge of a new century.
Everywhere smelled like ambition: a mix of diesel, construction dust, jasmine perfume, and fried dough.
The skyline was still shy. Pudong was mostly cranes and dreams.
But the pulse of change was everywhere: fast, hungry, and loud.
I was in town for a business development stint, part of a cross-border initiative led by the firm I’m working for. It was my final project before I would leave for my Master’s.
Factory visits by day. Banquets by night.
We passed name cards with both hands. Gave toasts with baijiu that burned twice, once going down, and once in reverse the next morning.
That’s when I met Lili.
She was introduced at dinner by a project liaison, “
a friend who knows the city well,
” he said with a wink that implied more.
She appeared at a group dinner wearing a fitted cheongsam with modern tailoring, deep burgundy, slit that ran high enough to distract, but not offend.
Her Mandarin had a soft northern lilt. Her English was piecemeal, borrowed from
Friends
reruns and Hong Kong dramas.
But her eyes, dark, wide, unreadable, did most of the talking.
“You don’t look like the others,” she said during dessert.
I smiled. “What do the others look like?”
She shrugged. “Too serious. You look… kind.”
She offered to show me around the next evening.
I agreed.
We met near the Bund, her in a tan trench coat, me in a borrowed blazer that still smelled of my hotel room closet.
She teased, lightly. Asked questions, listened carefully. Reached for my wrist once while laughing, then let her hand linger there. We talked about nothing. We talked about everything.
Back at the hotel, she stood quietly at the doorway for a moment… unsure if I’d invite her in.
I did.
Inside the room, the lights stayed dim.
She moved slowly, her fingertips brushing the back of my neck as she leaned in to kiss me.
She didn’t undress herself all at once, but piece by piece, as if unwrapping something too precious to rush.
Her skin was soft, warm, smooth, the light from the corridor lamp outside tracing every curve.
We made love in a way I hadn’t experienced in a long time, not urgent, but
absorbing
.
She straddled me gently at first, hips rocking with rhythm and control.
Her hands wandered with confidence, exploring the contours of my chest, the angles of my face.
She whispered my name repeatedly, not moaning, not shouting, but as if imprinting it.
And when she came, her whole body stiffened around me before collapsing into a trembling exhale.
Afterwards, she nuzzled into the crook of my arm, murmuring, “Don’t fall asleep first. Just hold me.”
She stayed the night.
But the next morning, the air shifted.
The next morning, she was already awake, sitting cross-legged on the bed, hair damp from a shower, humming something vaguely familiar.
She’d made breakfast from the minibar: crackers, sliced apples, a single cup of instant coffee she insisted we share.
“You should marry someone like me,” she said lightly.
“Why?” I asked, smiling.
“Because I’m good at mornings,” she replied, handing me the coffee. “And I’d never let your shirts wrinkle.”
That’s when she said it, not as a joke, but in a steady, unwavering tone.
“I want to come to Singapore with you.”
I blinked. “You mean… visit?”
She shook her head. “No. Stay. Marry.”
I laughed, reflexively.
She didn’t.
“I looked it up. I can apply for a long-term pass. But marriage is faster. Easier.”
I sat up, heart pounding.
“Lili, we barely know each other.”
She sat beside me and laid her head on my shoulder.
“You don’t have a wife. No children. You’re responsible, you’re kind, and I… I can take care of you.
I can start a new life. You don’t even need to love me fully at first. I’ll earn it.”
Her voice didn’t tremble.
She wasn’t begging.
She was
offering
herself: as a partner, a solution, a future.
She smiled again, that same smile from the first night. But this time, it didn’t reach her eyes.
“I’m good with children,” she added. “And I won’t ask for much.”
I told her that I had to go to work.
The rest of the trip, I kept my distance.
Attended meetings. Claimed food poisoning.
Stayed in another hotel my last two nights.
But the messages kept coming.
“Where are you?”
“I just want to see you.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t make trouble.”
I turned off my phone before I flew out.
Back in Singapore, I deleted every message I’d saved. And changed my SIM card.
Didn’t speak of her again for years.
A colleague said it plainly at Changi over Kopi:
“Some women there… if you have a passport and a job, you’re already a husband. You just don’t know it yet.”
I didn’t feel flattered.
I felt like I’d walked to the edge of something, not romantic, but
transactional
.
Lili had been beautiful.
Tender.
Generous.
But beneath the seduction was a desperation so carefully cloaked in grace that I almost didn’t see it.
And maybe that’s what scared me most.
Because part of me, the lonely part, the part still grieving Angela, wanted to say yes.
To believe the illusion.
To accept her offer and let someone else write the next chapter for me.
And that in a foreign city, with shifting rules and unspoken scripts, you don’t always know who’s writing the story… or which chapter you’ve wandered into.
⸻
[End of Chapter 43]
Mirror Site:
Note from Author: Stay smart, stay steady.
Bros, this chapter really serves as a reminder. Many Singaporean men who travel overseas for work or leisure can easily find themselves in such situations: the women are often charming, attentive, and seem to offer exactly what a lonely man is looking for. But sometimes, beneath the surface, there are other motives at play.
When someone you barely know starts talking about marriage and migration after just a few encounters, it’s no longer romance… it’s a transaction. And once feelings or legal papers are involved, the consequences can follow you long after the trip is over.
Not every woman is like this, of course, but as Singaporean men with stable jobs and passports, we are often seen as a “
way out
.” It can feel flattering in the moment, but it’s important to step back and ask: is this genuine, or am I just being drawn into someone else’s escape plan?
My advice to bros reading this: enjoy the company, but keep your head clear. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, and don’t let a few nights overseas turn into years of regret back home.
Stay smart, stay steady.
Quote:
Originally Posted by
raxip
Her mistake was showing her cards too early, although if you just wanted a marriage to have a family without having to be emotionally tethered to the spouse, her offer is not without merits.
To add on to the Chapter, Lili gave me strong
Cecilia Cheung
vibes, not just the looks (
she actually resembled her quite a bit
), but also that same intense aura. But the personality… that’s another story. Attractive as she was, I knew it would be too much for me to handle.
Quote:
Originally Posted by
TheBeginner
I really like how you unwrap and peel back each character, and how you package and describe your crossing of paths with them. So many memories for a lifetime.
Thanks bro, appreciate that. 🙏 I just write it the way I experienced it… each character that comes along leaves their own kind of mark, so I try to capture that feeling as honestly as I can.