By Zoe Tay

Perhaps the worst thing you could do to someone is to disappear. So get to it. Block an abrupt morning off your calendar and choose a politely foreign cafe. One you've never been to together. Arrive early so you look un-sweaty and put together. Bring a book. Read. What Therese and Carol had together seemed no longer love or anything happy but a monster between them. Be casual to not scare her, and the conversation might go down well. Sit in the corner behind the wooden panels that shield you from baristas, their crockery jangling good-morning at you while you make a show out of searching for privacy.

For 30 minutes, peek at the baristas pressing pucks of espresso and steaming milk. Draw a flower on your napkin. Next to you two girls are shrieking and fighting over the largest croissant of their lives. It's somewhere between scissors-paper-stone and wrestling. Each time one of them wins, she takes a vicious bite of the croissant, and they laugh in truce. Ten reconciliations between them in five minutes.

Maybe nothing is beyond repair. Bob your head five times to the rhythm of their sets of "Sci-ssors, Pa-per, Stone!" Allow this dance to give you the guts. It's been six months, and she will arrive, laugh-less and intimidating, besides the fact that she has dyed her hair purple. And new piercings, helix and tragus. Decide it doesn't suit her then decide you shouldn't decide that. Maybe you say a prayer. She's a little startling. Stable on her feet like she's ready to attack. Maybe the bleach job is slightly uneven, but don't look for too long.

Notice instead her outfit, that you like, and the leather sling bag resting on the curve of her shoulder. The bag, unlike the rest of her outfit, is the only thing still carrying some history. That bag recently came back from a semester abroad in Beijing, spending months tucked under her puffer jacket. The leather seems rejuvenated: it is shinier than normal, but reticent about the experience.

Get her the kouign-amann she likes. Or maybe the focaccia sandwich she doesn't. Maybe she'll reach over her half of the table to give the pepperoncini to you, and that'll kick the conversation off. Get yourself a croissant for good luck. Maybe all can be resolved with scissors-paper-stone. At the cashier, wonder who you are. Fight the urge to turn around and run. There is a fire escape in the left corner, green sign white text push bar to open.

Okay. Here's how you actually start the conversation: a Frenchman in a pink polo will shout across the cafe that his almond croissant is stale, and his commotion will be a catalyst. Neon pink man exercising the right to speak in the middle of a Joo Chiat cafe. Deeply uncool and very provocative.

You'll realise that it's possible for things to be sent back to be refired, even in a place like this. So try. Begin at the first hint of her smile. Say, "The signs do say 'Paris of the Yeast'… and 'Welcome to the land of bake believe'…" Repeat the slogans on the wall, funny you. It's stupid, and you sound dumb, but it will work and she will laugh a little. The cadence of her laugh will still be the same, so you'll know all the beats, but do not be too proud or fall into regular rhythm too quick. Play gossip like you mean it. Solve the problems of her friends you've never heard the names of, the co-captain or the vice-director of the tennis club or the student life committee who has trouble navigating their talking stages. Ask about them, not her, not yet.

Listen for as long as you get to, because she won't forget the days' to-do's. She'll ask why you cancelled thrice. Admit you're wrong. Apologise. She'll ask why you unfollowed her on Instagram. Feel ridiculous and childish, then admit you're wrong. Apologise. Don't say anything beyond the borders of what she asks. Don't offer anything new.

Next to you, the girls are moving on from their fighting, attention spans too small to house the memory of the oversized pastry. Scissors-paper-stone for a different prize, or punishment. They are absolutely clamouring to finish a shocking-pink dragonfruit juice they both dislike. Though they've only said about three words, it will feel like they've got a bigger vocabulary than you.

The ease of being girls. Remember, but do not bring up the last time you saw her. A birthday spent together at the oceanarium. Misfiring giddiness over a shared plate of fried rice. The loneliness that came and stayed after. She's already said, she just doesn't talk like that anymore. There is nothing more to it. It's easy to mistake the muscle memory of love for friendship.

So don't bring it up. It will sound too much like an accusation. When you don't know what else to say, tell her simply and neatly that you don't know what else to say. You won't feel a need to explain yourself. She knows your tendencies. You will find this horrible. She will only nod and say, "I think we both tried at different times."

When you hear the "Do you think we'd have a second chance together?", think what the fuck, then ask, "You mean, as friends?" When she clarifies, say no, twice, in quick succession. For a minute or so, she won't reply. Pick the flakes off your croissant, with gravitas. Know what she's doing in her mind. She could be counting the sundried tomatoes on her sandwich, or calculating goods-and-services tax, or drawing lines to pass the time, every slash a second, a group of five, twelve times, a minute. Across from you there's a couple sitting adjacent to one another. The woman is reading a book titled Emotional Intelligence. By Daniel Goleman. Ask her what she's thinking. "Good choice," she will eventually say. Feel a little like kismet is slipping away.

You've been reaching for each other in parallel. Wonder how you got here, so entirely lost. The feeling of something having gone terribly wrong. Sit with it. Excuse yourself to go to the bathroom. Sit with it. Put your head in your hands. Breathe here because you won't get to, not on the bus back, nor at home, why did you come home from your meetup so early, oh it was just a quick breakfast, she had something on afterwards. Brave girl at home as the world collapses behind you. Breathe in liquid courage:

●      Muji jasmine sambac reed diffuser
●      Indie-brand spearmint essential oil hand soap
●      Magiclean Pipe + Sink cleaner
●      Clorox disinfecting bathroom bleach, tile cleaner, toilet brush, black and white tiles, 2 ply toilet paper, 5 things you can see, 4 things you can hear, 3 things you can touch

Resist the need to scream, lest you alarm the croissant girls. Tell her she should leave first. Realise that's the last thing you may ever say to her. She'll say, "That's not very nice," but do not try to choose your words differently. She hasn't taken the sling bag off her shoulder this entire time. Maybe she thinks you'll try to rob her. Crane Road swallows her as swiftly as she walks down it.

Sit thoughtfully, now alone, and whisk away the layer of water floating on your latte. Look down at your book. Look down because every woman is her. Therese wishes the Lincoln tunnel might cave in and kill them both, such that her and Carol's bodies might be dragged out together. Do not look up, or consider the thought of losing her so thoroughly.

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