I did not hear the thunder when I first arrived. Singapore never announces itself with storms. It greets you with a warm, wet blanket of air—a tropical embrace that clings to your skin the moment the airport doors slide open. I remember thinking, This is what hope feels like. Sticky. Heavy. Full of possibility.
Held onto the railings, the railings of Cavenagh Bridge. Looked at the skyline and said to myself: I will remember this. farewell my singapore
Now, standing at the same departures gate, I am trying to learn how to say goodbye to a place that was never meant to be permanent, but became, somehow, home. I did not hear the thunder when I first arrived
And I will.
Tonight, I stand at Changi. It is raining outside—that sudden, violent tropical rain that turns the streets into rivers for fifteen minutes before vanishing like it never existed. I watch the planes take off. Somewhere, a family is reuniting. Somewhere, a student is leaving for university. Somewhere, a worker is flying home to see a newborn child. I remember thinking, This is what hope feels like
As the plane lifts off, I press my forehead against the cold window. The city lights blur into a constellation—a string of gold and diamond against the black sea. You look so small from up here. So impossibly small. And yet, you contain worlds.