Sayang, Singapore
Singapore hits you the moment you land—the warmth wraps itself around you like a damp towel, thick and relentless, but not unkind. The city pulses with a strange, structured rhythm: clean, bright, and endlessly alive. Streets hum with energy, and it only takes one good downpour—sudden and unapologetic—to understand the charm in its extremes. I wandered through hawker centres where steam rose from sizzling pans and queued for chili crab with the locals, fingers sticky and lips tingling from spice. Orchard Road was dizzying in the best way—designer stores, glowing windows, the rush of it all. You can lose hours there, and maybe a little part of yourself too.
Sentosa Island felt like an exhale. The mainland buzz faded behind me as I arrived, and in its place: soft waves, suspended cable cars, the distant squeals of children at waterparks. I sat on the edge of the beach with my shoes off, feeling the sand against my skin and time slowing down. Adventure lovers would rush toward Universal Studios or zipline through the treetops, but I was content with simply being there—watching the colors of the day shift from bright gold to soft lavender as the sun began to slip away. There’s something about Sentosa that makes you feel like you’ve stepped into a dream that doesn't ask too much of you.
Then there were the Gardens—the ones that bloom like science fiction under glass domes, and the ones that hum with quiet life, tucked away and waiting. The butterfly sanctuary was where everything softened. I thought of Stefan the whole time. My cousin, who left this world too soon at ten years old, had a love for butterflies so pure, it felt holy. He used to press stickers of them onto his schoolbooks and shirts, wide-eyed as he explained their names and flight patterns. I remember how deeply it pained him that they didn’t live long. It’s a memory that still cuts deep, and yet—watching the butterflies here, some just hatched, trembling on the edge of life—I felt him. I carried one gently on my palm and whispered his name. I saw him in the wings that refused to give up, and in the quiet dignity of the ones whose time was nearly over. Something ached and something healed all at once.
This trip was short, just a handful of days, but it held entire lifetimes. It gave me beauty, taste, stillness, memory. It gave us Stefan again—if only for a moment. I like to think he would’ve loved this place, with its rainstorms and flowers and the chance to witness flight in all its fragile glory. I believe he is safe, somewhere light-filled and eternal. But on that day, in that garden, he was with me too. And Singapore, in all her gentle intensity, held space for it all.
