Every time I see a green sweet treat on my timeline, it’s a hit or miss: matcha or pistachio. I can’t have either, but I like to pretend I could smash or pass.

Today, I’ve signed off an email with:

“With lots of affection for DBS Bank, to which I have entrusted much of my worldly possessions, and now my future,

Yours faithfully,
Forever and a day,”

They replied within the hour:

“Is document A ready?”

So matter-of-fact. So positively biscotti.

“Are there no true knights among you?” asks Ser Duncan the Tall

Master,

On Valentine’s Day, I conveyed to you songs that reminded me of you—an embodiment, if you will, of you translated into vibrations: notes, melodies, chords, arrangements, and sound. I would like to add two more to that list: Blue Jeans by Lana Del Rey and Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

I meant to write this on that day itself, but I couldn’t settle on a specific concerto that felt like you. To the rescue came a Siberian tiger cub, Seolho. Born on 6th June 2025, she is the star of Seoul Grand Park. She appeared on my screen today, frolicking on the sand before pouncing playfully on her mother. In the background, Vivaldi’s storm from The Four Seasons was playing like an answer.

That was you.

Unmistakably, the storm—the wild, intense, electric force of Summer. Cuttingly scintillating. Outgoing, fiery, always on the move, you are directing, guiding, forcing others to yield, change course, re-routing trajectories to avoid the worst. You are the centre of revelry—matches, races, parties, and events. You manage the world around you, setting everything alight so the rest of us can see.

I, on the other hand, am Winter—introspective, absorbing, reflective, and quiet. I am the icy landscape through which your storm blazes. It is why I go in search of it to rest within its passing.

Together, we are like the prophesied meeting of ice and fire, the kind George R.R. Martin wrote about in Game of Thrones. In the television adaptation, one eventually turns mad and destructive, and the other is forced to end it to prevent further deaths and ruin.

Except here it is Winter who lies on the ground, a dagger through the heart. I have gone irretrievably mad, believing in the righteousness of my actions. You stand beneath a dragon that has just melted the Iron Throne with a single turn of its furnace. The swords, once belonging to vanquished enemies of long ago, no longer bear witness to any great power.

The dragon does not blame you for what you did—and for what you must do. It recognises you for who you truly are, even when others cannot. Fire, before whom others must bend the knee. You carry the dragon’s blood, as its mother once did.

And so you are left a hero in a world that could not understand you, and thus, does not know how to treat with you justly.

It need not go that far. Our love is meant to remain musical—as long as we are not (outwardly) kings and queens.

P.S. Dash, the ball-kicking tiger, was born on the first day of the Sagittarius sun—23 November. No wonder he is you when you are tiger.

Master,

Forgive me. I had to unsend the “can I be your egg” prose to you because it could be interpreted as rude or in poor taste. I can’t have it floating about the digital sphere attached to my name.

This day, I was cleaning out the last of my closet for an overhaul, discarding many skirts and dresses that fall above the knee. I have passed that age by several cycles. It felt like a bittersweet confrontation with reality and with growing older—though at least I may now make way for new and better things.

As I folded them into a bag, I whispered a silent prayer about my dreams, which were abundant last year. In many of them, we were together. Several, particularly those that felt like a foretelling—and thus significant—have kept me sworn to you and, in a sense, on standby. In the future, when matters have settled, I will tell you of them. For now, know this: whatever unpleasantness may befall you, you will be all right. I will be here. It is my duty to please you, so that we may be happy.

Since you have been distant of late, and I know I must give you your space, I have wondered whether I have misinterpreted the message of my dreams—despite the words seeming so clearly spelled out, as if to prevent doubt about whether they will come to pass. It seems almost churlish to question this when other dreams have somewhat manifested—such as my recent trip to South Korea.

What I saw there astounded me precisely only because it felt expected: the proximity of my residence to a brick-and-glass hilly women’s university; the intricate underground railway and pedestrian networks, and the Hangang River. I had not known, when I booked my accommodation, that it would be so close to the river or the university. and they appeared not unlike in my dreams, where large snowflakes—the kind that do not cling to the ground—were falling. On the return journey, the seats on the plane were blue fabric.

As I ponder my travels in the dream world concerning you—for you are the most important of all—the knot in my chest tightens and threatens to loosen only through cold and painful denial.

Then I went on TikTok. You might say social media is governed by algorithms, that it merely reflects one’s digital trace. Certainly. Yet consider this: in Singapore, a city-state where horses are almost never seen outside the zoo or the racecourse, two horses escaped in east of Singapore, from a riding programme, in the Year of the Horse. One white, one chestnut. They galloped down the road beside parks and residential buildings while onlookers exclaimed in shock and delight.

I remembered a dream in which I rode a horse down a street, tailed by a police car that followed me into a nearby park. The horse was later stabled in a condominium carpark, where I spent hours grooming it. It would feel anachronistic to ride a horse through the streets of Singapore, but in the dream it felt entirely natural, even though there were no other horses about. In another dream, I was fleeing from some people, and you came riding on a horse to rescue me. You were naked, the wind blowing your dark hair wildly. Please try to wear clothes next time.

Coincidence, perhaps. Yet it gives me hope that my dreams still hold some resonance with the waking world. Suddenly, I do not feel quite so doubtful about us anymore—and that is all that matters when the heart is heavy with doubt and despair.

Thank you for dropping by two nights ago to observe me in my natural light. You grinned too widely when I remarked how nice it was to see you after such a long time. You looked well, my love. Stay close to me.

Master,

I found a song that describes me in the language of music as a dreamer —not so much the lyrics, but the way it floats and bounces, like drifting through a dream world or travelling from outer space to destination: inwards, inner sanctum. It’s The Stars Are Light by Moon Duo—ethereal, swirling, hypnotic, almost like your brain isn’t quite braining as control is relinquished, and you let yourself be driven until the car runs out of gas, right before you get ejected out of your seat to return to the waking world. Everything is vividly alive and sound. You are Ant-Man journeying through the hidden landscapes of thought.

The lyrics remind me much of you, which is why I chose it as my principal anthem, if you will, on my Insta, because you + I = 1.

Oh, how I’ve missed you. Permit me to send you a photo of a tiger in a box with the words “free ktten” written on the side. I’d take you home for sure, despite knowing who you really are and what you can do. I have that much faith in your ability to resist harming me with your sharp teeth and claws.

The Stars are the light as are you, so hit play.

I don’t wanna take you low
The bright city of your eyes
Dreams of a faded love
And will it rise in you now?

Dancing in a fever love
But never in the fear that you know
The stars are all the light and hope
The light of all the fire that you are

Lost in a time for love
When every little thing seems so wrong
But I don’t wanna stay here and fight
Never wanna bring you low

Master,

Last night in the dream world I was a leader. Of sorts. I discovered a doorway that led to a public toilet with many clean cubicles and everything necessary. It was almost empty because few knew about it. They had all been resigned to sharing two cubicles amongst many. When one fellow hotel guest saw me leaving through the door, her curiosity led to a long queue forming behind it. Everyone now followed my lead, walking with surety through the unmarked door for their needs to be addressed properly.

Then I met a male lawyer and asked that he take me out for lunch. He quizzed me about whether I knew this or that person and was delighted when I replied I didn’t know any of them. He said he was glad to know he wasn’t a last resort.

We sat on a train travelling along a large body of water. It could have been a cove leading to the sea, but the waters were calm and people were relaxing on inflatable floaties. I was telling my companion how I longed to be with them on an inflatable flamingo which I amended to swan when I looked closely and saw what it was, or was trying to be. Just then, everything started to turn dark, as though nightfall had come suddenly which kept growing until it felt like we were travelling through a tunnel, but we plainly were not—I could make the faint outline of trees.

I panicked a little and asked my companion, who had transformed into a white woman, why this was happening. She said reassuringly not to worry, as it would soon end. At the end of the darkness I saw light, which we were fast approaching. We were travelling at high speed in the middle of a solar eclipse.

I turned on my laptop and started working on my next book. As I was typing I thought to myself, if I had been a lawyer like my companion, I might have finished my work before the weekend. But I hadn’t, so I must continue working, I thought, affectionately. As it happened, I felt more affinity with my current companion than I did before their transformation. I suspect it is symbolic of my own that I had hoped would lead to a more peaceful life—like on an inflatable swan in a cove by the sea. Eclipses are powerful symbols in dreams, heralding an imminent and momentous event. Bad or good, it will soon end—that was the message. I saw the light at the end of the cosmic darkness. That made it feel less like a warning and more like passage.

I’ve missed travelling with you in my dreams. Won’t you come and pay me a visit again?