It feels as though several lifetimes have slipped through my fingers 

It was precisely twelve years ago, around this very time, that I boarded a flight bound for Singapore. Changi Airport—how grand it was, how foreign. The details of that day have grown faint, like the yellowed edges of an old photograph. But one thing remains: the sight of my brother and his companion—both already scholars in that foreign land—waiting for me. They took me to their dormitory, those cramped little rooms we used to call home for a while.

The world was still wide open to me then, and I, a stranger to sorrow.

Early years  (2013–2016)

The culture shock hit me almost immediately. I couldn’t quite make out the local accent at first, and even something as simple as buying a meal felt like a small challenge. The public transport system—tapping an RFID card just to get on a bus or train—felt strange to me back then. Everything was new. Even living arrangements weren’t the easiest. I shared a small, crowded dorm room with my brother and his two roommates. It took some getting used to.

Still, those days have a certain nostalgia to them. I remember the college parties, the late-night gaming sessions, the small moments that made those early struggles feel lighter. There’s a kind of charm in youth you only recognize much later.

Eventually, my brother and I moved out. My college was all the way across town, and I told him that the daily commute was wearing me down. I was also having a hard time adjusting to the social environment at school—there was still that language barrier, and it made things harder than I expected.

But I did find another place where I could slowly find my footing. Not in the classroom, but at work. I got a part-time job as a banquet server at Sheraton Towers. It wasn’t an easy place to be, not by any means—but it gave me something to hold on to. A place where I could talk to people, learn, and start to feel a little more at home.

Being young, broke, and a little clueless—that wasn’t exactly the life I had in mind, but it was the one I lived. Funny thing is, while most of the part-timers at Sheraton Towers complained about the canteen food, to me, it was a godsend. A proper meal, served hot, with protein, vegetables, and carbs—what more could I ask for? Most days, the alternative waiting for me back home was just a packet of instant noodles. So yes, when I devoured the canteen food like it was my last supper, people noticed. They thought it was strange, but for me, it was comfort.

In those first couple of years at college, I found myself growing oddly attached to working at the Sheraton. I’d often end up on the regular part-timer schedule. Not just for the pay—which was always collected daily and helped me scrape by—but also for the chance to meet people, and again, for the food.

Of course, not everything was pleasant. The 12-hour shifts were brutal. The seniors weren’t always kind—some took pleasure in making life harder for the newcomers. And after a while, the constant standing left my feet bruised and sore. It stayed with me for years, that ache.

But nothing lasts forever. By early 2016, I started to slow down on booking shifts. I had landed a paid internship, and slowly, the Sheraton shifts faded into the background. Somehow, in the middle of all that, I even managed to keep a long-distance relationship going. We didn’t have much. There were days when we’d scrape together just enough to share a plate of biryani. Strange how those moments stick with you. Struggling together, laughing at how broke we were—there was something quietly beautiful about it.

Eventually, I graduated in mid-2016. That marked the end of both college and my time in food and beverage. I left with sore feet, a few stories, and a great deal of hope. I was finally ready—or so I thought—to step into the world and earn a full-time salary.

Customer Service Career and Identity Crisis (2016-2018)

Another chapter quietly unfolded when I accepted an analyst position at Micron. It was a support role, with rotating shifts, and while that kind of schedule wasn’t for everyone, I saw the silver lining. It gave me just enough flexibility to manage my university studies and still stay connected with my loved one back home. In a way, it offered structure during a time when life felt uncertain.

Looking back, that was the period when my communication really began to improve. I was suddenly placed in a multi-cultural workplace, full of voices, rhythms, and perspectives I hadn't encountered before. My main responsibility? To speak. To take calls, to make them, to listen carefully and respond clearly. And that—more than any classroom—became my true education.

I also picked up a routine of going to the company gym, often tagging along with a local colleague. We’d work out together, chat about all sorts of things, and in the process, I soaked up the language around me. Bit by bit, the local slang became part of my vocabulary. I found myself adjusting my tone, even the way I paused between sentences—somehow my speech began to echo that familiar rhythm of Singaporeans and Malaysians alike.

Without even realizing it, I had started to blend in. I became, in many ways, a four-year-old expatriate—neither tourist nor native, but something in between. And I started to enjoy it. Local cuisine became my comfort: Char Kway Teow, Laksa, Bak Chor Mee… the list went on. I’d wander through the neighborhood in my cheap Pasar Malam loungewear, queuing at hawker stalls, quietly feeling like I belonged—at least for a while.

The elderly folks in the area used to call me “Ah boy.” I suppose it was because of my small frame and a face that hadn’t quite caught up with my age. It was a simple nickname, but oddly, it meant something to me. A quiet sign that perhaps, in their eyes, I was no longer just a foreign face.

There’s one memory that still lingers, even after all these years. I was standing in line at an ATM one afternoon, just another day really, when an elderly uncle in front of me turned around and spoke to me in Mandarin. He seemed to be struggling with the machine and was asking for help.

But I froze. I couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying.

Before I could even open my mouth to respond, another man behind me—an Indian uncle, of all people—stepped forward. He spoke fluent Mandarin, calm and confident, and helped the elderly gentleman with ease.

I’ll never forget the look on their faces after that—especially the old man’s quiet confusion, and perhaps, disappointment. And then there was the glance others gave me, a sort of questioning look. That moment stung, more than I expected. I felt, for the first time, a kind of shame I hadn’t known before… as though I had somehow failed in carrying the skin I wore, the language I should have known.

From that day forward, I made up my mind. I had taken a short Mandarin course before coming to Singapore, but that wasn’t enough. I dug up my old textbooks, the ones gathering dust in a forgotten corner, and began learning again. My Chinese colleagues were kind—they helped where they could, correcting me gently, encouraging me to try.

On my off days, you’d often find me at home with headphones on, poring over pinyin charts or translating lyrics line by line. Songs, oddly enough, became my teachers. I’d listen to them on repeat, humming along, slowly training my ears and tongue to recognize common words and rhythms. Singing helped—it made the language feel less foreign, more like something I could hold onto.

It took months. A lot of stumbling, a lot of trial and error. But eventually, I began to speak—first with hesitation, then with growing ease. These days, I can chat casually with the elderly neighbours downstairs, and more importantly, I can offer help where once I stood silent. Even something as ordinary as ordering food at a hawker stall feels effortless now.

Funny, isn’t it? How a small moment of discomfort can become the start of something so meaningful.

Early Software Engineering Career & Relationship Step-up (2018-2021)

After two years at Micron, I said my farewells. There was a quiet weight to it—gratitude, mixed with a sense that something new was finally beginning. I had earned my degree by then, and with it, came the long-awaited step into software development. A field I had always hoped to break into, and now, at last, I had my chance.

The years that followed—those were the ones that return to me often. Sweet, vivid, and sometimes... bittersweet. My then-girlfriend had finally managed to come to Singapore to study. After all those years apart, we were now in the same city, breathing the same air, making plans, even simple ones, side by side.

2018 and 2019 passed quickly. Too quickly. They swept over us like a soft wind that you only truly feel once it's gone. Days blurred into weeks, and life felt full—even in its ordinariness. And then, without much warning, we found ourselves living together. Not long after, the pandemic hit, and Singapore went into circuit breaker mode. The world grew quiet, streets emptied, and time stretched.

Oddly, those were the days we got new jobs—right in the middle of uncertainty. We cooked, worked, laughed, and made a life together under that small roof. We became comfortable. Maybe too comfortable. We thought, perhaps, this was what growing up felt like.

But time has a way of peeling back the truth. In 2021, she began to speak differently. Small hints, barely audible at first. She started to mention wanting space. Wanting to move out. At first, I brushed it aside, thinking it was just restlessness. But deep down, I knew.

It was the beginning of an ending.

There’s no easy way to describe that sort of silence—the one that slowly creeps into conversations, the quiet pauses that grow longer with each day. We were still there, side by side, but something had shifted. And even now, looking back, I’m not quite sure when exactly we crossed that invisible line from together… to apart.

Career Burnout and Arrival of Jie Mao (2022-2024)

We stayed together for another year after that difficult talk. A year held together by effort, not ease. We both knew things weren’t the same anymore, but we tried anyway. We told ourselves that perhaps with a little more patience, a little more time, we might find our way back.

We moved into a new apartment. A proper home this time—not just a rented master bedroom, but a place that could carry the weight of our hopes. And as life tends to do, it expanded. The furniture multiplied, the responsibilities piled up, and then, by her gentle insistence, we adopted a cat.

Jie Mao arrived on the 1st of June, 2022—a beautiful, soft creature with a quiet curiosity about the world. He still lives with me now. 

His presence brought light into the house, yes, but also brought more to manage. Shared responsibilities became daily negotiations, and the growing weight of material things began to feel like anchors around our ankles. We tried to juggle it all—household chores, emotional baggage, everyday stress. But we were tired. Slowly, quietly, we began to suffocate beneath it all.

Eventually, she moved out. Packed her things and left, and I stayed behind—left to sit with what remained: the silence, the furniture, and Jie Mao.

The chaos of it all choked me. My personal life had spilled into my work, and the fatigue became unbearable. I found myself unraveling, one thread at a time. I felt I needed out, a breath of fresh air, something—anything—to disrupt the spiral.

So I stepped down. I took a junior role again, giving up the leadership responsibilities I once carried. I went back to being an individual contributor. It was humbling, but necessary. In those months that followed, we continued dating, off and on—dragging our hearts through another half-year of uncertainty. By mid-2023, it was over. For good this time.

That breakup... it hollowed me out.

For four long months, I lived in a kind of numbness. I couldn’t meet deadlines. I couldn’t focus. I stayed in bed, not sleeping, not waking. Depression came quietly, but settled deep. And yet, through it all, I was not completely alone. My colleagues saw me struggling and, bless them, they held out their hands. Covered for me. Checked in on me. Gave me just enough space to breathe.

Eventually, I began to rise again. I reconnected with an old part-time colleague—someone who, by some strange symmetry, was also walking through his own sorrow. And not long after, an old childhood friend came to Singapore, chasing a new certificate, chasing something new. Their presence... it anchored me.

Slowly, the fog began to lift. And by the time 2024 arrived, I felt something stir again in me. Not quite joy, but a kind of readiness. A spark. As if life, after all it had taken, was offering me another beginning.

Artistic Pursuits (2024-Present)

For the longest time, I had set aside my love for art, literature, and visual storytelling. Life had become a string of semicolons and syntax errors, caught up in the tidy logic of programming for nearly six years. Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten that my soul once beat not to numbers and code, but to colours, voices, and poetry.

So I picked up the brush again.

Not with the same carefree spirit I once had, but with the cautious reverence of someone returning to a long-forgotten home. I began looking into local art competitions—hoping to find something with a theme I could pour myself into. The UOB Painting of the Year competition caught my attention immediately. Its prestige, the generous prizes... it felt like a meaningful stage to step onto.

But then came the blow: I wasn’t eligible. My visa status disqualified me. Just like that.

That was the moment it struck me, quietly but sharply—I had always been a guest here. A long-time visitor on this island I had grown to love, but never truly belonged to.

Still, not all doors were closed.

I discovered smaller, humbler competitions—held by the Asian Art Association, by the UNHCR for charity, and by the National Heritage Board for cultural preservation. These weren’t widely publicized, nor richly rewarded. But they were sincere, purposeful. I spent my weekends painting for them, giving shape and colour to the feelings I couldn’t always express in words.

I didn’t win any medals. But I gained something greater: purpose. Something to anchor me during those quieter, lonelier months.

At the same time, I began to experiment in the kitchen—cooking dishes I’d never tried before, filming the process, editing it, and posting it on TikTok. It was play, in the truest sense of the word. A reminder that creativity isn’t always grand—it can live in a simple bowl of soup, in the way the light hits a freshly plated dish.

Then came another turn. In the later part of 2024, I was let go. My company had restructured, and my position was dissolved. For a while, I sat with that familiar ache—rejection, uncertainty, fear.

But instead of retreating, I leaned into it.

These are the days of my life (2025-Present)

Now, this career break—unplanned, uninvited—has cast a shadow over my right to remain on the island I once called home. Each day I live under its weight, a quiet anxiety threading through the hours. And yet… I still find myself hoping. Hoping for a letter, a message, a door left ajar. Hoping, always, for better days ahead.

The early months of 2025 were testing times—for both Jie Mao and myself. My loyal companion, silent and steadfast through it all. With great care and no small amount of sacrifice, I devised a plan to migrate—northward, across the causeway. A dear friend of mine, kind beyond words, stepped in to care for Jie Mao in my absence. Without that act of grace, I do not know where I might be today.

As for where I now stand—at the border of my past and what remains of my future—I have little to say about immigration, or the life of an expatriate. What is there to say, really? I have, in my own way, become a part of the woodwork, a familiar figure in a place that never truly belonged to me.

I am the “Ah boy” who never quite grew up, the quiet neighbour who eats hawker food in loungewear, the voice in a call centre that picked up a thousand lines, the typing hand behind that software release, the one who paints in the evenings and sings into an old microphone with too much reverb.

As I write this—today, on the twelfth anniversary of the day I left my homeland—I sit by a window, looking across the straits at those familiar, melancholy hills. And in my heart, I send out a soft, unspoken wish: that the island might call to me once more. That I might be needed again.

But if not, then let this be enough:

I was here.

I lived.

I loved.

And for twelve long, fleeting years…I was nothing but a guest