Every year, a group of us who grew up together tries to meet again.
We’re no longer living in the same places. Some of us have moved to different towns, while others have crossed borders entirely. So when we finally manage to get everyone together, our itineraries become almost military in their precision. Breakfast at one place. Walk somewhere else. Dinner booked for a specific hour. Someone is always checking the time.
This year, our last lunch was different.
It was supposed to be another item on the schedule before everyone left for home. Instead, we ordered more food than we planned and somehow stopped looking at our phones.
One friend ordered char kway teow. Another insisted on getting the chicken rice that one of us had always loved as a child. We added satay for the table, then ordered another round of drinks because nobody seemed ready to leave.
I remember looking around at everyone and realising that this was probably the least organised meal we had shared in years.
There was no next destination we were rushing towards. We talked about old classmates, terrible haircuts, first jobs and the things we had missed while living apart. The food kept arriving, and we kept finding reasons to stay.
I’ve spent enough time eating around places like Clementi to know how easily a meal can become an excuse to keep talking, but this felt different. For once, nobody was counting the minutes.
Eventually, we had to leave. Bags were packed, transport was checked, and the familiar uncertainty of saying goodbye returned.
But I think I’ll remember that lunch differently from the others.
Not because the food was extraordinary, but because we finally gave ourselves permission to eat without somewhere else to be.
Perhaps that is what we lose as we grow older: not the ability to eat, but the freedom to forget what time it is.
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