The morning he left, I didn’t cry.

I walked with him to the bus stop—5AM, sky still dark, air sticky, everything too quiet. His duffel bag was finally real, slung over one shoulder like he was trying to look chill about it. He kissed my cheek before boarding the bus. No drama. Just a tired, “Text you when I can, okay?”

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I nodded and smiled. He grinned back like this was just a school camp.

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I watched the bus pull away until the taillights disappeared, then I turned and walked home, back to my block, back to my room, back to the same bed where we had fucked just hours ago.

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I lay on the same pillow, and it already didn’t smell like him anymore.

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The first few days were quiet.

Too quiet.

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He texted when he could—short things, like “Tired af,” or “Today kena tekan like mad.” Sometimes just “Goodnight” with a heart.

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But by the end of the first week, I knew what all my seniors meant.

That NS doesn’t just take your boyfriend’s body.
It takes the rhythm.

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We used to talk until we fell asleep. Now I waited hours for one-word replies. And when he called on the public phone—those ten-minute windows between lights-off and knock-it-down—I could hear the boys shouting in the background. The calls were always rushed, sometimes cut halfway. Once he had to hang up because the sergeant walked by.

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“Sorry babe. Will talk more tomorrow.”

He didn’t.

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I kept busy.
Lectures at poly. Group projects. Work shifts at the cafe.

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But it was at night that the stillness crept in.

The bed felt colder. The vibrator I’d stuffed in the back of my drawer started looking less like a joke gift and more like a backup plan.

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On Thursday night of Week 1, I gave in.

I lay in bed with the lights off and played a voice message he sent—him laughing at something stupid his bunkmate did. He sounded tired, hoarse, a little far away.

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My hand slipped under my shorts. I closed my eyes and let myself remember the way he moved inside me, the way he groaned when I sucked him off.

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But even when I came, it felt… unfinished. Like eating microwaved leftovers. Warm, but no taste.

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I wiped myself down and stared at the ceiling, phone glowing beside me with no new notifications.

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By Week 2, the texts slowed even more.

“Sorry babe, no time today.”
“I’ll call tmr if I can.”
“I fell asleep just now sorry.”

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I didn’t blame him. Not really.

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But I was still lying awake most nights, phone in hand, refreshing WhatsApp like it was supposed to change something.

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“Eh,” Amanda said during lunch at poly, chewing on her toast. “You look damn restless. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “He’s just in NS.”

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She raised an eyebrow. “Wah, only one week and already like this?”

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I didn’t reply. I just sipped my iced kopi and scrolled through TikTok like I was fine.

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But I wasn’t fine. Not because I didn’t love him.

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But because love wasn’t filling the gap.

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Friday of Week 2, Amanda said something casual over text:
“Ladies’ Night next Wed. We all going. Come lah. You need a break.”

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I stared at the message for a while.

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I thought of the same bed. The same silence. The same goodnight text, if it even came.

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Then I typed back:
“Okay.”

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To be continued