Otter Watching
by Sarah Ang
Runner-up of the 2026 Online Fiction Contest
Judged by Jemimah Wei
“‘Otter Watching’ captures precisely the humiliation of young love, of being regarded without dignity, and the way desolation can become its own gravitational force. Here, the world narratively bends around a heartbroken girl, who cannot help but read personal relevance into the lives of the otters she watches, even as she actively attempts to maintain a policy of noninterference. Psychologically astute and with immense fidelity to the experience of processing heartbreak, the story uses water — as habitat, vehicle, and body of fear — as a throughline that carries it through each turn of life, with the gentle promise of renewal beyond the story's end.”
These days, water fills my dreams. The exact dream differs – sometimes, I am in a canoe without a paddle, drifting in a vast lake with no shore in sight. Other times, I am struggling to stay afloat amidst crashing waves, caught in the middle of an ocean squall as dark clouds billow overhead. Or at the edge of a waterfall, about to fall to an unknown doom with the currents. When I wake, panting for air, the resounding roar of water rushing past still rings in my ears.
My mother blames the dreams on my idleness. “Of course, you’re having strange dreams; you’ve just been moping around, accomplishing nothing.” Two months after the end of our relationship, she’s finally had enough. She barges into my room and shoves a colourful pamphlet into my hands. I am lying prostrate on the bed, curled up under the covers with the blinds blocking out the sunlight, not exactly in a state to offer up any resistance. I turn the pamphlet over and am greeted by the round head and toothy grin of an otter staring at me, while bright orange words in blocky lettering float above its head, blaring “Otter Watchers”.
“Aunty Mei passed this brochure to me. She used to volunteer with them, but can’t anymore, and needs a replacement. Think of it as a passion project,” she says earnestly.
“It’ll be good for you, instead of lying in bed all day. Look at your room, it’s a pigsty! I know you’re feeling down, but you need to get up and do something. It’s almost the end of your term break, and you haven’t even done a single internship!”
I look at the mound of unwashed clothes at the foot of my bed, at the papers strewn haphazardly around my room, and I know, begrudgingly, that she is right. “I’ll consider it – let me look it up,” I mumble.
***
I’m good at looking things up. Soon after we started getting to know each other, I’d carried out a systematic excavation of your online presence, swiftly determining your background and history. I’d found old primary school photos of you, awkward and gangly, with your pre-orthodontic teeth sticking out, but with the same fascinating smile. Conversations with friends plastered on your Facebook wall. Records of trophies won in swimming competitions, preserved for posterity in the school magazine. Photos of you, older, with your arm thrown around your teammates’ shoulders, an easy confidence gleaming in your eyes. I’d gathered these pieces of information hungrily, quickly cataloguing every new fact I learned about you. You were academically brilliant – we were both in a top-tier junior college, but you’d done exceptionally well in past examinations, judging by the number of times you’d been featured on the school website for topping the level in various subjects. Your dream was to become a lawyer one day, you’d proclaimed in one of your posts.
Even after our relationship ended, and we’d done the obligatory unfollowing of each other on social media, I’d scour your friends’ accounts for a glimpse of your face. Each time my breath would catch in my mouth, granite hardening in my stomach, but I couldn’t stand not knowing what you were up to. I’d type your name into Google tremulously, just to see what I could find. I did this until I saw a new face recur besides yours in your friends’ Instagram stories, framed by fluttering eyelashes and long hair, sticking by your side like a burr to a piece of cloth. That was fifteen days after we’d called things off. I felt the air sucked out of my lungs, and knew I had to stop.
***
A quick search on the Internet for ‘Otter Watchers’ proves rather fruitful. The Otter Watchers are volunteer otter enthusiasts who dedicate their time to monitoring the movements of otters in Singapore. Their efforts help track population growth, aiding the National Parks Board in monitoring the health of the species and determining whether to take action in ‘managing’ them. Their Facebook post calling for volunteers is scant on details on how to apply, though, and just lists a phone number. On impulse, I find myself picking up the phone and keying in the numbers.
The Otter Watchers woman who comes to meet me at Bishan-Ang Mo Kio Park the following Saturday morning is forty-ish and looks like she could have children of her own. She’s dressed in a nondescript navy-blue shirt and hiking pants, and smiles at me from underneath her polka-dotted cap.
I quickly learn her name is Samantha, and she’s been part of the Otter Watchers group since about 5 years ago. She comes to the park regularly, dedicated to the otter family that calls it home.
“This otter family has been here for about 5 years...they started as just a pair, but after the mother gave birth to several litters, their numbers expanded exponentially,” Samantha rattles on excitedly.
“They’re actually highly social creatures – you can tell from their interactions with each other. The pups stay with their parents until the new litter is born, after which they leave and forge their own lives out in the wild.”
Samantha leads me deeper into the park, down the winding paths and up the wooden bridge that straddles the park’s river. And then I see them. In the distance, six dark heads protrude out of the water like buoys, fine whiskers trembling in the wind. Their sleek bodies scythe through the water effortlessly, leaving ripples in their wake. Sunlight catches the top of their smooth pelts, turning them into dappled gold. Like some kind of animal deity, I think to myself. Sculpted for the hunt. A fish jumps out of the water, likely startled by the otters’ approach. A deadly dance of scale and claw begins. Like lightning, an otter seizes the fish with a flash of bone-white teeth, twisting out of the water. Other otters follow suit in a frenzy, creating a flurry of water droplets as they arc in the air to pursue their prey. The hunt is over almost as soon as it begins, with the otters swimming downstream and disappearing under the bridge.
Samantha is beaming from ear to ear. “What a sight to behold, don’t you think?”
“Indeed,” I whisper.
***
The first time you spoke to me was right after we’d received our mid-year examination results, in the first year of junior college. You’d come out top of the class in practically every subject we took – History, Economics, Mathematics…save one: English Literature. When our teacher announced that it was me who obtained the highest score, and had my essay photocopied for the whole class, I saw your knuckles clench white as you gripped the edge of your seat.
We were in the same class, but you had never noticed me before that, too fixated on your pursuit of academic and sporting excellence. Of course, I’d noticed you – the golden boy, star athlete, pride and joy of our cohort. Who hadn’t? Teachers fawned over your intellect, our female classmates doodled your image in their notebooks, while the boys could barely disguise their envy. It was a known fact that you were destined for success. As for me, I’d secretly noted all your achievements, but kept my distance.
You came up to me after the results had been announced, a relaxed smile on your face.
“Congratulations,” you said, extending a hand. “I read your essay. It was brilliant.”
“Thanks,” I murmured, trying to ignore the hammering in my heart.
“Want to grab lunch together sometime? I’m free after History, if you’d like.”
I barely managed to nod, internally screaming at myself for my monosyllabism. Then again, words always failed me with you, even after we’d gotten together.
I couldn’t quite identify the sensation in my stomach that arose then, as you walked away. I’m not sure I can even now.
As we spent more time together, I started to turn up at your training sessions after school. I would sit on the benches near the swimming pool—trying to ignore the judgmental whispers of the other school team swimmers—and watch you swim laps, slicing through the water like a knife. Seeing you in your element was a sight to behold; it was like the water ceased all resistance. Like it was propelling you forward, rather than impeding your path. You’d power down the length of the lane, arms moving with immaculate precision, your body a force of sculpted muscle and controlled power. When you got to the end of the pool and saw me, you’d grin and playfully flick water droplets my way, laughing as I squealed and flinched away.
Truth be told, I’d always been averse to water. I’d never learned to swim. Water bodies frightened me—the thought of flailing around at the mercy of the currents was more than I could bear. Even the man-made, chlorinated swimming pool with its still surface unnerved me—I envisioned myself sinking underneath the surface, dropping like a stone. No amount of logic, or scientific knowledge of the buoyant tendencies of human beings, could help me overcome this fear.
You only found this out later, and you would scoff at me for it, unable to comprehend how the element you loved so much could inspire such fear in another. Even so, those training sessions were how I like to remember you best. Heading straight in my direction, delight shining in your eyes, even if this was elicited by your passion for the sport, not by me. Coming back to me, not leaving.
***
After these training sessions, we’d often study together, and lapse into conversations about our aspirations for the future. I say conversations, but they were mostly one-sided, with you pronouncing your painstakingly planned personal roadmap for the next ten years, while I listened. You were aiming for a perfect score in our national examinations, to help you get into a prestigious university in the United Kingdom. After that, you intended to work in the country’s best law firm, become a partner in said law firm as soon as you could, get married and have two children, a girl and a boy. I admired this about you, this ability to know what you wanted with absolute certainty and devise a plan to obtain it. You seemed to have everything under control, your entire life all sorted out. I was attracted to that, like a planet orbiting the sun, seeking to absorb some of its radiance.
I only realised later that your plans had never included me. You’d never once explicitly talked about a future with me in it, and I was lost in false assumptions, too blind to see the truth.
***
During one of our otter-watching sessions, Samantha brings me near an otter den, constructed under another of Bishan-Ang Mo Kio Park’s smaller concrete bridges. I hold my breath as I see a baby otter tumble out from underneath the bridge, mewling. Its mother whips around in a flash, grabbing it by the neck and quickly vanishing.
“Singapore’s otter pups stay with their birth family longer than wild otters do normally, for about three to four years, as they wait for territories to open up,” Samantha informs me.
“Sounds rather like the BTO lottery,” she chuckles.
Otters are fiercely protective of their family, and by extension, the territory their family occupies. They deposit spraints – the scientific term for otter faeces – as proud demarcations of their home territory. We come across these on our walks: foul-smelling, slimy globules along the riverbanks. I wrinkle my nose, but Samantha beams from ear to ear.
“Signs of a healthy population!” she exclaims.
***
The night you asked me to be your girlfriend, you brought me to the Botanic Gardens. You’d told me dinner would be a surprise, and when you pulled out two ham and cheese sandwiches from a dented paper bag with a flourish, I didn’t even mind that they were soggy.
We ate them under a pavilion next to the lake in the centre of the garden, in silence, holding hands. When you finally asked the question, you fumbled in your bag and presented me with a half-crushed, ridiculously orange gerbera. “It’s not a rose, because I thought you weren’t the type of girl who liked roses,” you explained, one hand hurriedly trying to obscure the bright yellow sticker with “50% off” scrawled on it. “Besides, they’re too cliched.”
I didn’t mention that I was a hopeless romantic at heart, and roses were my favourite flower. Or that I abhorred the colour orange with a vengeance.
Instead, I looked into your eyes, and I saw the sun with all its brilliance.
***
On another occasion, Samantha and I were lucky enough to see a challenge from a rival gang further north, seeking new territory. The otters hiss upon seeing the intruders cautiously approaching, their fur bristling. The biggest male otter raises his hackles, baring his teeth in a ferocious snarl, taken up by his mate.
In a swift, sudden motion, the adversaries lunge, their bodies colliding with an audible force. The battle shifts to the water as they grapple for dominance, their movements a blur of swift and calculated strikes, while the water churns around them.
Slick fur becomes soaked and matted, as the battle rages on. The otters pause, locked in a momentary stalemate. Both sides assess their chances, weighing surrender against a final surge of strength.
And then, it ends. The intruders retreat, tails slinking between their legs. The male otter sniffs the air haughtily and returns under the bridge to nurse his wounds, his mate by his side.
***
The first time we fought was when you said you didn’t want our relationship to be public. It was the day after you’d asked me to be your girlfriend. People had long noticed how we’d been spending extended periods together, but I suppose something had changed in my demeanour that gave the game away. My friends had already commented, with knowing grins, that I looked abnormally happy.
One of your teammates walked into our classroom, smirking when he saw us sitting together.
“So, you finally did it? Are both of you together for good now?”
You didn’t respond, furrowing your brows instead. Your friend raised his eyebrows, standing with his arms akimbo in an exaggerated pantomime of waiting. A flash of annoyance crossed your face.
“None of your business, Alex.”
“Wha... what d'you mean? It’s a simple question-” Alex’s questions were cut short as you brushed past him abruptly, out the classroom door. I hurried to catch up.
“What was that about?” I blustered when we were out of the classroom, keenly aware my cheeks were flushing red.
You let out a long sigh.
“Look, I’d appreciate it if we keep this relationship quiet, you know? No need to tell everyone about it?”
Seeing my expression, he continued,
“We’re both busy studying for the finals, and I’d rather keep it to ourselves.”
I suppose that was the first warning sign, but I let you fool me. No, I fooled myself—into thinking that you cherished our relationship as something to protect from the school’s unrelenting gossip mill. Fooled myself into believing that you genuinely wanted privacy, instead of being ashamed to declare yourself as being entangled with a girl who didn’t quite fit your idea of perfection, but was useful, nonetheless.
As if to prove my worth to you, I invested countless hours in helping you achieve your goals. Leading up to our finals, I would stay up until midnight editing your application essays, then drag myself to school in the morning, after which we would study together until the late evening. During these study sessions, I would usually end up helping you with English Literature, your weakest subject.
“I just can’t understand these characters,” you would complain.
“They make everything seem so tragic when it isn’t.”
I suppose some part of me liked that you found me a necessary part of your life. That you, our school’s star pupil, were indebted to me in some way. And when you smiled at me and ruffled my hair, whispering, “Thanks for your help,” I suppose I mistook that for love.
***
These are the things I learn about otters, from observing them with Samantha:
Otters are highly affectionate creatures and spend large quantities of time playing with each other. When not hunting for food, they engage in bouts of playful sparring, or grooming each other’s fur.
Samantha and I develop a routine. We meet thrice a week in the mornings or evenings, when it’s cooler, to observe the otters and take notes on their overall health and population size, although this is mostly an excuse to watch them. We spend hours on end just gazing at them gambolling in the water.
We are walking along the park paths when we hear a commotion ahead of us. A group of otters are tussling on the riverbank, in front of gawking pedestrians who are thankfully maintaining a respectful distance. Getting closer, I notice the otters have somehow crafted a makeshift slide in the muddy banks, and are taking turns to propel themselves with glee down into the water. Their fur glistens as they squeak and whistle with unbridled enthusiasm.
***
Even in the beginning, we never really went on proper dates. You were too obsessed with your pursuit of a perfect score, and would complete practice paper after paper, essay after essay. When I suggested doing some of the activities that regular couples would do, like watching a movie or visiting a museum, you’d scoff.
“We don’t have time for that,” you’d grumble.
“The examinations are coming soon, and I’m nowhere near prepared.”
I’d give in, too afraid of offending you to offer any argument.
Once, during a late-night study session, I suggested that you teach me how to swim.
“What for?” you questioned, your lip curling.
“You’ve never swum before; it would take ages to get you accustomed to the water. It’s not that useful a skill, you know. And besides, you’re scared of it, aren’t you?”
I didn’t tell you that it wasn’t the skill I wanted to develop. That I’d thought you would relish the idea of introducing me to the sport you loved so much. That my fear of the water was surpassed only by the worry that you would look at me thrashing around, helpless and afraid, and scorn me for not being able to measure up. That despite both these fears, my desire to spend time with you was stronger still.
***
Otters often share their food and have even been known to give each other gifts of rocks or fish remains.
It is noon when, on one of our rounds around the park to scout for the otters, Samantha and I chance upon them lounging in the water, feasting on a large carcass of fish. They jostle for space, but the whole family manages to obtain scraps. As we watch, one of the pups bites off a mouthful of meat and proffers it to his older sister, born from a previous litter. She accepts and nudges him affectionately.
***
On our last anniversary, after we had both completed junior college and were waiting to begin university and national service respectively, I thought I’d surprise you with something special. I bought a pair of expensive swimming goggles. I’d saved for months to afford them on my part-time job salary, and read numerous reviews, just to pick out the ones I thought were right.
You turned up an hour late to the restaurant I had made a reservation at.
“Sorry, training ended late,” you said. Seeing the box that I had painstakingly wrapped and decorated with ribbons, your eyes lit up.
“Is that for me?”
Your eyes drooped when you saw the contents of the box.
“Thanks,” you muttered, much less enthusiastically.
“What’s wrong?” I heard myself enquire, a pitch too high.
“Nothing, it’s just that these aren’t exactly the ones I’d buy for myself, you know. They’re not aerodynamic enough; not very suited for racing,” you frowned.
“But thanks anyway.”
I turned away so you couldn’t hear my heart shatter.
***
I’d read the news about otters decimating the koi ponds of gated properties around the island. I’d seen pictures of how they killed the fish, devouring only the heads and leaving the rest of the body untouched.
Samantha tells me about these incidents too, shaking her head. “I think they view it as sport; perhaps they just get overwhelmed by the variety of choices within reach,” she says. “I don’t think they can really comprehend how cruel it is, how much suffering the koi go through, confined to a small place and unable to escape.”
I didn’t know it then, but in that moment, hearing your reaction to my gift, I felt very much like the koi.
***
Samantha and I are looking out for otters on what seems like a typical evening, when suddenly we hear a piercing cry. We race to the bridge where the cry seems to have originated. Below, we see an otter pup with its head caught in a fishing trap, its neck bloody and lacerated where the trap has closed around it. It hurls the rest of its body around in the water helplessly, trying to free itself.
“These are illegal, and hardly ever found here!” Samantha exclaims.
“Fishing isn’t even allowed in this park.”
The trap in question is a funnel fishing trap, which operates on a simple concept – lured by the scent of bait, the fish enter the trap, which narrows as they journey towards its end. They usually aren’t smart enough to figure out how to exit, so they remain in the trap until someone comes to collect them. The otter pup likely poked its head into the trap and couldn’t get itself free.
The pup’s eyes roll back in its head in sheer terror. The entire clan of otters has gathered around the mewling pup, swirling eddies in the river as they squeal in distress, paddling around helplessly.
“What can we do?” I ask Samantha breathlessly. Ruefully, she shakes her head. “We’re not supposed to come into contact with the otters. If we attempt to help, it might startle them, and risk injuring the pup even more. Besides, the trap is difficult to remove without specialised equipment – it might only clamp down further if we tamper with it.”
“So, we’re just going to stand here and watch?” I recoil, gritting my teeth in helpless frustration.
As I look at the otter pup, struggling weakly in the fishing trap, I see myself. Caught in the throes of wanting affection from you, forever striving to please, even at my own expense. I’d thrown myself headlong into desperate attempts to earn your love, tried to wriggle my way into the activities you prized, the future you sought to attain. But a planet cannot remain in orbit without a gravitational pull. Gradually, I realised you’d spun out of my circuit. After I began studying at university and you’d entered national service, your texts became less frequent, and so did our meetings. You’d say you were tired from the bouts of intense training, but I suspected that wasn’t the only thing you’d grown weary of.
I knew the end was imminent when you failed to attend my award ceremony. I had chosen to study English Literature in university and begun dabbling in writing poetry. After encouragement from my professors, I had submitted a poem for a prestigious national poetry competition and won first prize among entries from across the country.
You were still in National Service then, but the ceremony fell on a Saturday, when you were out of camp.
“I’ll be there,” you’d assured me.
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”
The evening of the award ceremony, you were nowhere to be seen, and my flurry of text messages to you had gone completely unread for the entire day. As my name was announced, I walked onto the stage, so intent on scanning the audience for your face that I barely noticed I had clenched my fists so hard that my knuckles had turned white.
You never turned up.
As soon as the ceremony ended, I rushed out of the event hall, shaking as I dialled your number.
“Hello,” you responded groggily.
“What’s up – oh shit, it was today, wasn’t it. Look, I’m so sorry, I overslept, camp has been really tiring...”
You gave excuse after excuse, but I had stopped listening. I crumpled up the poem in my hand and let it fall to the ground in a daze. All I could think about was the day I’d asked you, once, in a fit of desperation, why you loved me.
You had paused, a quizzical look on your face.
“Because you’re a good listener,” you said.
“You care for me, and you’re helpful. And you’re not needy, like some other girls.” After a while, you added,
“Also, I think you would make a good mother.”
And there, standing outside the event hall trembling, I realised this – you’d never once told me that you loved me. Not like, but love. To like someone is to value their attributes, to appreciate their qualities. To love someone requires sacrifice. It requires you to put your own needs second.
The end only came later, two weeks after you’d ended your stint in national service. A week after you’d discovered that the university you’d applied for in the United Kingdom had offered you a full scholarship for the duration of your degree.
We were walking in the Botanic Gardens, around the circumference of the lake, when you broke the news.
“I’ll be studying overseas, and you’ll be here,” you explained.
“We’d hardly be able to talk, with the time difference and all. Long-distance relationships are doomed to fail. Besides, I’d want to work there for at least a few years after graduation, you know that…”
Numb, I let you drone on, recite your laundry list of reasons that you had strung together with perfect, ice-cold logic.
“I just don’t see a future where we can remain together...” you continued, then broke off.
“Wow, that’s a huge house.”
Somehow, we’d left the gardens via one of the side entrances, and ended up in an affluent residential enclave, with stately mansions spaced luxuriously apart. I’d never been to this area before.
“This one even has a guardhouse,” you whistled.
“Must be some bigshot’s property. These are the biggest houses I’ve ever seen in my life.”
In that moment, I debated telling you that you had never once asked me what I wanted to do, or how I felt about our relationship, in the whole conversation. That even in breaking up with me, you could still focus on the houses around us, rather than on me. That the poem you missed had been written about our relationship; that I had prepared a dedication to you on the night of the award ceremony that I never got to say. I imagined opening up like the ocean split by an earthquake, letting the tidal wave of unsaid grievances wash over both of us.
I didn’t say a word.
***
Before us, the otters are mobilising, communicating with each other in frantic squeaks and grunts. Their lithe bodies twist and turn in front of the trap, spiralling upwards in a flurry of bubbles. With a start, I realise they are directing the flow of water with their webbed paws, channelling it towards the trapped pup.
“They’re trying to get the water to loosen the trap,” I exclaim to Samantha.
At first, it seems like nothing is happening, but then I realise that with each surge of water, the trap’s iron-jawed grip around the pup’s neck is loosening. The otters persist, deftly manoeuvring so that water flows towards the trap’s opening from all angles. With an audible creak, the trap widens, and two of the biggest otters quickly grab the otter pup’s back paws and pull. Straining with all its might, the otter pup manages to wriggle free, and a crescendo of jubilant chirps echoes from the rest of the waiting otters. They gather around the pup, nuzzling it affectionately, and clean the blood off its matted fur. Then, carefully supporting the pup in the middle of the group, they set off into the distance.
Samantha whistles.
“The resourcefulness of these creatures never fails to amaze me.”
I nod, watching the otters surge forward, playfully splashing each other as they glide further and further away.
“You’re right. There’s much to learn from them.”
That night, I don’t return home from Bishan-Ang Mo Kio Park. Instead, I take the MRT to the Botanic Gardens. I retrace the path we took on the night of our break-up, stopping finally at the lake that stretches out ahead of me. It’s late, and there’s no one around. Tentatively, I take off my shoes, step into the lake, feel the cool mud soaking beneath my feet. I wade deeper, feeling the water lap against my body. Then, I take a deep breath, and slough you off my skin. Let the water make me whole. And suddenly I find myself floating, lying on my back, gently supported by the water. Above, the moon shines down, casting a luminescent sheen over the lake. And in that moment, I find myself almost swimming.
About the Author
Sarah Ang is a writer from Singapore. She has won multiple international and national awards for her writing, such as first place in the Wilbur Smith Author of Tomorrow Award, first place in the iYeats Poetry Competition, first place in the National University of Singapore Creative Writing Competition, second place in the Walter Swan Poetry Prize, second place in the Alpine Fellowship Academic Writing Prize, and third place in the Wells Festival of Literature Young Poets Prize, among others. Her work has also been featured in publications including Wildscape Lit, Mithila Review, The Best Asian Short Stories, The Best New Singaporean Short Stories, and Idle Ink. Find her at www.sarahangwrites.com.
