Every Friday at 12:47pm, Hafiz saves his file, locks his screen, picks up the bag under his desk that nobody has ever asked about, and walks out of the office like a man who isn’t counting minutes.
He is always counting minutes.
Ten minutes to walk from his tower near Raffles Place to Masjid Al-Abrar on Telok Ayer Street.
Then wudu at the ablution area, washing his hands and face and arms and feet the way he’s done since he was a boy.
Then find a spot, unroll his sajadah if the floor is full, put on his kufi.
The khutbah starts around 1pm.
If he’s late, he prays in the overflow area near the entrance, shoes still warm from the pavement.
He’s been doing this every Friday for six years.
Since the first week of his first job out of NUS.
Nobody taught him the choreography.
Nobody sent him a guide. He learned it the way every Muslim professional in the CBD learns it.
By walking it once, checking his watch, and shaving off seconds until the maths worked.
The bag is small and black, the kind you get free with a pair of running shoes.
Inside: a white kufi, folded flat.
A compact sajadah, the travel kind, thin enough to roll into a tube. A pair of clean socks.
Nobody has ever asked what’s in it.
His colleagues know he steps out on Fridays. Most of them think he takes a long lunch. He’s never corrected them.
𝗜𝘁’𝘀 𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝘂𝘆 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝘀 𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗹𝘂𝗻𝗰𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝘂𝘆 𝘄𝗵𝗼 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱𝘀 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝗹 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗼𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻. 𝗘𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝘇𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗮 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁.
That calculation happened once, six years ago, and he’s never revisited it.
The routine is precise because it has to be.
Dhuhr in Singapore falls just after 1pm.
The khutbah runs twenty, twenty-five minutes.
Prayer itself is short.
He’s usually back at his desk by 1:50, screen unlocked, Slack status flipped from “Away” to “Active,” kufi already back in the bag, bag back under the desk.
Some Fridays are tight.
A call that runs over at 12:40.
An email from a manager at 12:44 that says “quick question” and is never quick.
He types faster on Fridays than any other day of the week.
Sends shorter replies. Uses more exclamation marks so nobody reads his brevity as coldness.
Every Friday, the same quiet choreography. And every Friday, a small part of him wonders if today is the day someone finally asks where he goes.
Three weeks ago, someone did. Sort of.
His manager, Rachel, sent a calendar invite on Wednesday afternoon. “Lunch alignment with [Client].” Friday, 12:30pm. Mandatory.
Hafiz stared at the invite for a long time.
He typed a reply: 𝘏𝘪 𝘙𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘭, 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘍𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 12:30 𝘵𝘰 2. 𝘞𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘣𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘧𝘵 𝘵𝘰 2:15?
Deleted “standing commitment.” Typed “prior engagement.” Deleted that. Typed “personal commitment.” Went back to “standing commitment.”
Stared at it for a full minute. Deleted the whole email.
He walked to her desk instead.
𝘏𝘦𝘺, 𝘍𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘺’𝘴 𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦?
She looked up. 𝘊𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵’𝘴 𝘧𝘭𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘚𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘵. 𝘞𝘩𝘺, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨?
The question sat between them like a door he could walk through or walk past.
𝘕𝘰, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦. 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬.
He went back to his desk.
Opened his calendar.
Deleted the 12:30-to-2 block that had said “Personal” every Friday for six years. Just for that week. Just that once.
On the day, he sat in the conference room at 12:30. Laptop open. The bag still under his desk in the other room.
Rachel was walking through Q3 deliverables. The client was nodding. Hafiz was nodding too.
At 1pm, somewhere on Telok Ayer Street, the khutbah was beginning without him.
He could feel it.
Not in his ears.
𝗜𝗻 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗰𝗵𝗲𝘀𝘁. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗮 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻 𝗽𝘂𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝗮 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂’𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗻 𝗶𝘁.
The meeting ended at 1:40. Everyone shook hands. Rachel said “great session” and meant it.
Hafiz walked back to his desk and sat down and put his hand on the bag underneath and held it there for a while.
𝗛𝗲’𝗱 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗙𝗿𝗶𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝗶𝗻 𝘀𝗶𝘅 𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘀.
That evening, he prayed Maghrib at the mosque near his flat.
Longer than usual.
You can’t make up for a missed Jumuah.
It’s not like rolling over leave.
The Friday congregation is its own thing. If you miss it, the absence stays with you the way a skipped meal does.
Your body knows, even when your calendar says you were somewhere else.
He prayed because his chest still felt like there was a platform and a train and a gap he hadn’t closed.
The following Thursday, he blocked his calendar again. 12:30 to 2pm. “Personal.”
The following Friday at 12:47pm, he saved his file. Locked his screen. Picked up the bag.
𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲, 𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝘁 𝗥𝗮𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗹’𝘀 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗸 𝗼𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝗼𝘂𝘁.
𝘏𝘦𝘺. 𝘑𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘐 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘍𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩. 𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘍𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦.
Rachel looked at him.
𝘖𝘩. 𝘠𝘦𝘢𝘩, 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦. 𝘐’𝘭𝘭 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘍𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶.
She went back to her screen. He went to the mosque. The whole exchange took 11 seconds.
Six years of choreography. 11 seconds to end it.
He still leaves at 12:47pm. Still counts the minutes. The walk, the wudu, the kufi, the prayer. All of it, the same.
But something shifted that he didn’t expect.
Not the routine.
His shoulders.
The way he walks to the lift on Fridays.
He used to hold the bag low, tucked behind his leg, angled so the person behind him in the corridor wouldn’t quite see it. He didn’t know he was doing that until he stopped.
The bag isn’t under his desk anymore. It’s on top of it.
Last week, a colleague pointed at it. “Gym bag?”
“Prayer bag,” Hafiz said. “Friday prayers.”
“Oh, cool.”
Two words.
And Hafiz stood there after she walked away, wondering what exactly he’d been protecting himself from for six years.
𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗿.
𝗜𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗿𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗮 𝘀𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗵𝗲’𝗱 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗻 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝘀𝗲𝗰𝗿𝗲𝘁.
The calculation he made at twenty-three was wrong.
It was never easier to be a little lazy than a little different.
It was just quieter.
And quiet isn’t the same as easy.
Quiet is what happens when you absorb the cost yourself so nobody else has to notice.
𝗡𝗼𝗯𝗼𝗱𝘆 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝘀𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗴. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗶𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗱𝗶𝗱, 𝗵𝗲’𝗱 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗲𝘅𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗹𝘆 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗮𝘆.
You probably have your own version of this bag under your desk right now.
Something you manage in silence every week. Something you’ve rehearsed the explanation for a hundred times but never actually said out loud.
It might take 11 seconds.
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