Friend visited from Kuala Lumpur. We ate too much at the night market near Chinatown — oyster omelette, satay, something wrapped in banana leaf that we forgot to ask the name of. We talked about books we abandoned and authors we return to like unreliable friends.
She asked why I still write by hand when voice notes are faster. I told her speed is not the same as clarity — that my hand lagging behind my mind gives the mind time to reconsider. She nodded the way people nod when they will try something once and probably revert. That is fine. Not every habit converts.
We walked back through lanes where lanterns were being switched off one by one. Shopkeepers hosed down tables. The city at midnight is a different grammar — shorter sentences, fewer performances.
She stayed in the guest room with the window facing the airwell. I heard her typing late — emails, probably, or the novel she claims she will finish every year. At two in the morning the building settled into its night breathing: pipes, distant traffic, someone's television muffled by walls.
I came home sticky with humidity, happy, too tired to edit. Wrote three lines in the notebook and fell asleep with the pen uncapped. Ink stained the sheet — a small purple moon on cream paper, evidence that the day happened.
Morning note: she left before breakfast, a Post-it on the kettle that said handwriting wins. I kept the note inside the notebook. Some arguments are worth losing on purpose.