Every morning at 8:30 AM, Tanjong Pagar MRT station spits out thousands of us. We stream up the escalators into the air-conditioned glare of the CBD, decked out in our tailored G2000 suits, crisp office dresses, and polished leather shoes. To the world, we are the peak Singaporean dream: high-flying, productive, moving the GDP needle.
But behind those slick glass towers, behind the spotless lanyards and keycards, there’s a quiet rot. A dirty open secret.
It’s not just CBD; I’m convinced it’s every single office in this country. People get so hopelessly sick of the chope-eat-work-OT daily grind. Wake up, squeeze MRT, chase KPIs, kenna scolded by boss, repeat. Going to work becomes a soul-crushing routine. But the real trap isn’t the office—it’s going home. So many colleagues step into their flats at night to face pure unhappiness. A husband who cannot find peace, or a wife who simply cannot be satisfied no matter how much allowance you bring back.
So what do people do? They look for comfort where they spend 12 hours a day.
They start finding a “work husband” or “work wife.”
I’ve seen it with my own eyes a hundred times over my 15 years in corporate life. The late-night OT coffee runs. The shared laugh at the pantry. The subtle touch on the arm while waiting for the lift. I don’t even blame them anymore. Work is stressful, home is cold, and human beings are frail.
I know this because I didn’t just watch it happen—I lived it.
If only I could sit here and lie to you, say she was just a “work wife.” Just someone to grab lunch with at Amoy Street Food Centre, complain about our team lead, and share a Teh C Siew Dai. But it never stays at the lunch table. When two broken, tired souls find solace in each other under the fluorescent office lights, boundaries dissolve. The emotional intimacy bleeds into late dinners, then into “catching up” after work drinks.
And yes, if you’re curious—we crossed that line. We tasted the forbidden fruit. The guilt was heavy, but in those quiet, secret moments away from our real lives, it felt like the only time we were actually breathing.
Now, when I look around the lift crowded with corporate climbers every morning, I see past the ironed shirts. I look at their eyes. And I know half of them are just surviving the day, waiting for that one person in the next cubicle who makes the misery bearable.