Wet Season lingers in the humid air, its relentless rains drowning the streets and seeping into every corner of Ling’s life. A quiet schoolteacher, she navigates the suffocating routine of caring for her frail father-in-law, his declining health mirroring her own silent battle with infertility. The dampness of the monsoon seems to cling to her skin, a constant reminder of the life she can’t conceive—a weight that strains her marriage and hollows her days. Her remedial Chinese classes offer little escape, the fluorescent lights of the classroom buzzing like the static in her mind. There, Kok Wei Lun sits—soft-spoken, earnest, his notebooks filled with careful strokes of characters she teaches. Slowly, Ling notices the way his gaze lingers after lessons. The crush starts small: hesitant questions about poetry, extra essays slipped onto her desk, the faint blush when their hands brush while correcting sentences. Ling, craving connection in her isolation, leans into the attention. She offers Wei Lun more tutoring sessions, her home becoming an unlikely refuge for both. The rhythm of rainfall against the windows accompanies their meetings, the closeness growing as Wei Lun’s clumsy admiration collides with Ling’s yearning to feel seen. Yet every shared laugh over a miswritten idiom, every moment his knee accidentally grazes hers beneath the table, tightens the knot in her stomach—a guilty awareness of lines blurring in the gloom of the Wet Season.