Sakura Fuwari Berry Frappuccino

“Coffee?”“Ok :)” My thumbs moved before my mind caught up.I saved the spreadsheet that I'd been working on since lunch, locked my laptop, retrieved my cosmetic pouch, and, maintaining a facade of nonchalance, made my way past the rows of workstations to the washroom. Before the mirror, I dabbed away the sheen of the day, dusted a light powder to even my complexion, and refreshed my lips with a coat of raspberry pink. Five minutes to assemble a face that whispered effortless, not deliberate.A ten-minute stroll through the underpass separated our offices. At this time of day, Jin and I would meet each other halfway at the Starbucks along Raffles Quay. This indoor route protected us from the sun's aging rays — he cared less for such concerns than I did. Still, we preferred to be unsullied by sweat and fatigue from the torrid heat.When I arrived, Jin was already there browsing merchandise emblazoned with cherry blossoms. Sakura season had descended upon Singapore — tender pink flowers creeping into cafés and malls, limited editions with inflated price tags, all blushing and ephemeral.“Same order?” he asked when we joined the queue.My usual indulgence was a tall Chocolate Chip Crème Frappuccino. But my gaze had been waylaid by a picture on the menu board — a flamingo-pink concoction crowned with a generous swirl of whipped cream against a flurry of petals. Sakura Fuwari Berry Frappuccino.“The sakura drink!” I heard myself say, though I wasn't drawn to the new flavor. Perhaps I wanted to seem adventurous, to infuse our routine with a hint of novelty. Or maybe I wanted to grasp at those fleeting fragments of girlish charm swirling within a transparent cup and feel, for a moment, younger, livelier, prettier.We settled at a table beside the window; between us lay a slice of red velvet, his Americano, and my sakura frap. Outside the sun prowled through the streets like a wild beast.“Remember the girl I told you about?” he began, dividing the red velvet with his fork. “The one I met at a friend's birthday party?”“Uh-huh.” A teasing smile played on my lips as I focused on tearing the paper wrapper of the straw. “What's happening?”“We've been meeting up quite a bit. I think . . . I really like her.”I pierced the lid of my drink with the straw and took a sip, feeling the sakura frap slush over my tongue.“How's the drink?” he asked when he noticed me examining the cup.“Not quite my taste. I still prefer chocolate.”“Shall I order one for you?”“Oh, that's fine. It's not that bad. I can finish this.” I set the cup down and tilted my head slightly. “So, about her? Do you think she feels the same way?”“That's what I wanted to ask you.” He leaned forward, eyes searching mine. “We've been going to movies and dinners. She replies promptly to my messages — not always but almost. That's a good sign, right? That she's interested?”“Mm-hmm. Sounds promising.”“I'm thinking maybe it's time I tell her.”Look normal, I willed myself. I summoned a contemplative expression and shifted my gaze to him.“Do what feels right.”“You think so too, huh?”That there existed in this world a living, breathing person who occupied his mind so entirely — in a way I never could — struck me as a consolation: My choice to do nothing had spared me humiliation.“The thing that holds me back,” he went on, “is the possibility things become awkward and it becomes hard to remain friends.”“I know what you mean. But if you choose to do nothing, then . . . ”“Then nothing happens and you become obsessed with what could have been if you'd tried.”“And that's what you hate most, right?”Even though he shook his head with a sigh, a resolve settled over his face as he blew on his Americano, wafting a nutty aroma toward me. I watched the steam rise, blurring his features. He sat an arm's length away, yet it felt as though he was already moving toward a place I couldn't follow.I was nineteen when I matriculated into the business faculty at the National University of Singapore after the A-level examinations. In the absence of any passionate inclinations, business was a practical choice. I knew no one else enrolling in the same program, and although the weeks before the term I had nothing to do, I avoided the freshmen orientation camps.The swollen matriculation package I collected from the admissions office spilled open with maps and guides for navigating the vast terrains of university life. Among them, a bright brochure beckoned me to join an array of orientation camps, each promising to forge “good friends and good memories” like jewels set in time. But I was uneasy among strangers. The thought of spending a week eating, sleeping, and plunging into wild, wet, or muddy games with people unknown was anathema to my nature.My first day began with a marketing tutorial. Early as ever, I slipped into a seat in the last row. Soon the room filled, lively conversations spouting around me. When class began, I resigned myself to two hours of solitude, a state not unfamiliar. Ten minutes in, the door creaked open and someone slid into the chair on my left.“Did I miss anything important?”Just like that. No preamble, no ceremony — he leaned over and spoke as if we were old friends. I turned, expecting a familiar face, but met instead the gaze of a stranger, tanned skin and broad shoulders. Attributes I would learn later were honed by years of slicing through water. Jin was a swimmer.“Not much,” I murmured. “Just the tutor introducing himself.”From that brief exchange, we began to gravitate toward each other whenever fate placed us in the same classroom or lecture hall. By week's end, a friendship had sprouted like a seed breaking through the earth. We shared lunches in the bustling dining hall, swapped lecture notes inked with our scrawls, and spent long hours studying side by side in the library. Soon, three others joined us and we became a tight-knit circle that thrived on movies, mah-jongg, and beers on weekends. He possessed an easygoing warmth and generosity that drew people into his orbit.After graduation, our clique scattered like leaves in the wind. Like many freshly minted adults, our friendship yielded to the demands of budding careers and the allure of new relationships. Eventually Jin was the only one I stayed in touch with. No longer tethered to a shared timetable, we drifted in and out of each other's lives like tides pulled by a capricious moon. Yet whenever we reconnected after weeks or months apart, we picked up the threads as if time had folded in on itself. We confided in each other about failed romances, vented about toxic colleagues, and reminisced about our university days, finding in each other a harbor of familiarity and ease — a respite unburdened by the expectations that often accompany best friends or lovers.But when the stars aligned our offices within proximity in the CBD, we began to create unexpected rituals out of afternoons at Starbucks. Those meetings, once casual, began to hold a significance I could not ignore. Love had slipped into my life like a thief in the night, rearranging the furniture before I could put a stop to it: a friendship spanning a decade imperceptibly evolving into something impossible. Ten years was sufficient time for us both to have loved and lost others, ample opportunity for us to have chosen each other had we wished.How long does it take to be certain you're never falling in love with someone?“You sound super busy,” Jin texted when, for the third week, I declined to meet.“Yeah, let's catch up once I'm done with this huge project,” I lied.“Sure, no worries.”Then, the texts stopped coming.When I saw him again, it was a month later at the top of my social media feed. The girl beside him cradled a bouquet of roses, her almond-shaped eyes and delicate oval face framed by waves of hair that cascaded over her shoulders. Eighteen likes, a cascade of congratulatory comments, a red heart emoji captioned their smiles, solidifying the unspoken announcement. My fingers fumbled to click “like,” exit the screen, and switch the view to my inbox.That evening, I stepped out of the office and wandered through the city's rush hour, moving against the tide of commuters. I rode escalators and rounded corners without a destination. When I found myself standing in front of Starbucks, I entered — only because it seemed the most natural thing to do.Strange how a place could feel foreign at a different hour. Idle tables, tucked chairs, the labored hum of the air conditioner — the café seemed hollow, like a stage long after the performance had ended. Behind the counter stood the bespectacled waitress I recognized from previous visits, her posture slumping her over the counter like a wilted plant yearning for light. At the sight of me she straightened, surprise flickering across her face.“Hi! You don't usually come at this time.”“Thought I'd grab a drink before heading home.”“Busy? Haven't seen you around.”“Yeah . . . work has been hectic.”“Your friend not with you?”I felt a flush rising to my cheeks. That our regular meetings had been noted enough for their absence to be remarked upon flustered me. I shook my head, an apology or perhaps a dismissal, not trusting myself to explain that I would not be coming here with him anymore.“Would you like to try our new flavor? Green tea cheesecake frap?” She gestured toward the menu, oblivious to my discomfiture. The sakura frap had vanished, replaced by a green beverage crowned with whipped cream and sprinkles.“No, thank you,” I said, already shaking my head.“No problem. The usual? Chocolate chip crème, with whipped cream? Tall?”“Yes, please.”My eating habits harbored few surprises. I was that kind of customer who visited on a certain day, at a certain hour, and ordered the same thing. When it came to food, novelty hardly tempted me. If there's something you already like, why risk disappointment with the unfamiliar?I settled by the window within the slant of the evening sunbeam. Dust motes glinted and flittered in the space in front of me, like the flurry inside a shaken snow globe. My Chocolate Chip Crème Frappuccino tasted as it always did — sweet, comfortable, and familiar, his presence forming itself in that space. But he was sketchy, dappled in a golden otherworldly light, echoes of old conversations playing in pieces.As the last of my drink vanished, so did the illusion of him. Did he sense that I had distanced myself intentionally? Did he interpret my silence as indifference, or perhaps something more? The thought stirred a wave of embarrassment.I retrieved my phone and began to type: “Hey, sorry I've been so busy the past weeks. This project has been taking up all my time. Looks like things are going well for you! I'm happy for you. Congrats!” Minutes passed and the message lengthened into a head-scratching mess. I backspaced to a blank, wrote “Congrats on the new relationship :),” tapped send, and tossed my phone into the handbag.When I stepped outside, the sun had left for the other half of the world, leaving behind a darkening sky dotted with lit windowpanes where work had yet to settle. The air tasted damp and heavy, swollen with the promise of a storm. I boarded the train back to my corner of the city. The cold breeze brushed against my skin as I walked home. It's going to rain, I thought.Back home, I lingered in the warmth of the shower before retreating to bed with a crime novel I'd picked up a week prior. The tale of a reclusive mathematician who, driven by unspoken love, helped his neighbor conceal the murder of her ex-husband. Nearing midnight, I closed the book and glanced at my phone. Still no reply from him. His status read “last seen today at 18:28.” Perhaps he was working late or, more likely, entangled in the new life he was building. I pictured them together, sharing quiet laughter in a dimly lit café or nestled side by side in a theater.I turned off the light and pulled the covers close. Outside, no thunderstorm broke from the overcast skies, but the winds were strong, howling plaintively against the windowpanes for hours, like winter was here.Jin and I at a rooftop bar in MBS waiting for the New Year's fireworks: We were a few years out of college and ambitious in our careers.When he was a child, he said, his mother once brought him to a concert — classical music for kids. Midway, the conductor invited volunteers to lead the orchestra. It would be fun, his mother urged. But he refused — he was too shy.“The world felt too large, and I was too small. A pebble wishing to be unseen,” he said.He watched as other children climbed onto the stage, their faces alight with excitement as they waved the baton, summoning melodies from the musicians. When he turned to his mother, she told him the stage was full.“Hesitate and it's gone,” he said.Perhaps what he said, all those years ago, was this: Then comes the word — forever — a weight even the most cautious hearts can't fathom.