Schrödinger’s Crush

Set in Singapore and based on the theme of 'Anticipation'.

The afternoon is warm in that overly air-conditioned way only MRT trains in Singapore can manage. I’m wedged between two strangers on the Downtown Line, swaying gently as the train glides from Botanic Gardens. One hand clutches the silver pole, the other my worn copy of Haruki Murakami's The Elephant Vanishes —a small rebellion against e-books and algorithmic convenience. My playlist shuffles aimlessly on my old iPod—yes, I still use one—until something familiar and cinematic floats into my ears: Unravel by Björk.

I try to focus on the page, but the words bleed together. Blame the soft melody of the saxophones playing in my earphones, the gentle hum of the train, or the guy standing diagonally from me.

He’s dressed like every other guy in Singapore on September—a black T-shirt, beige pants, AirPods in his ears, and that careful, calculated casualness that screams "I don't care" in a voice loud enough to echo off the MRT walls. But it isn't his clothes that catch me. It’s the way he stands: effortless, not leaning on the pole, not hunched over his phone—just present, like he belongs in this space but not consumed by it.

Maybe it’s the way his curious but not restless eyes dart across the train. Maybe it’s the fact that he has a paperback in his tote bag—the spine worn and corners curled. Maybe it’s all of it, or none of it. Maybe he just happens to be the one my hopelessly romantic mind decided to latch onto today.

This isn’t the first time this has happened. I even have a name for them: Random Charmers. People who feel like missed connections in motion. They don't do anything special—they just exist in a way that makes you believe for a moment that fate still has a sense of humour.

I glance at him again.

Oh no. Eye contact. For a heartbeat and a half, we are both aware of each other.

I drop my eyes to my book. My mind, however, refuses to follow.

What if he thinks I’m staring? What if he’s flattered? What if he thinks I’m a creep? What if he’s listening to the same music right now? What if he’s a Murakami fan, too? What if he’s The One?

Oh god, I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Plotting entire futures in my head based on nothing more than posture and paperback novels.

Stop it. Just read. "As soon as it emerged from the hole, it shook itself until the bits of soil clinging to it dropped away.—" Wait, did I read this part already? Am I re-reading the same page again? How long has it been?

Another glance. He’s looking at me again. And this time—a smile. A small one, barely-there, but unmistakable. My heart lurches in that annoying, exhilarating way that reminds you you’re still young enough to believe in accidents that feel like fate.

Say something.

No, don’t. It’s the MRT. There are rules: don’t talk to strangers, don’t make things weird, don’t break the silence unless there’s an emergency, like a fire.

But what if this silence is the fire?

I argue with myself for the next three stops. Debating everything from "accidentally" dropping my book to leaning over and asking what he was listening to. And then I remember Kinokuniya Boy. Three years ago, at the flagship store of Takashimaya, he carried a tote bag printed with a sketch of a cockroach and quotes from Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, along with a face that made me believe in coincidences. I never said a word then, but I still think about him.

I close my book, inhaling and exhaling softly through my nose. Let Björk’s voice quiver and unravel like the threads of all the conversations I never had. Yes, I might miss my chance, but as long as I don’t know him, he’s perfect. As far as I know, he also reads Murakami. As far as I know, he’s kind, single, and slightly awkward but charming in an indie film way.

As far as I know, he might be listening to Björk right now.

The train pulls into Bugis—my stop. I step off without looking back, because if I look, it will be the last time I see him, and I’m not ready for that kind of closure. The platform air is crisp as I walk toward the escalator, letting myself melt back into the ordinary. Schrödinger's box opens, and I choose not to collapse the possibility because anticipation is sweeter than certainty.

Then, just as I reach the fare gate, I turn.

There he is—a few steps behind me, hands in his pockets, scanning the crowd until his eyes land on me.

And he smiles.

So maybe... if it’s meant to be, it will be.