Hidayah started changing things the very next day.
Not dramatically.
Not in ways anyone else would comment on.
She left class slightly earlier not lingering around, slipped into stairwells with more foot traffic, chose seats that gave her a clean line of sight to entrances. When she studied, she positioned herself closer to groups—not to blend or hiding, just… ensuring propinquity.
It wasn't fear.
It was positioning oneself.
She had ignored her instincts once before.
She wouldn't do that again.
Still, the feeling stayed with her—thin but persistent, like a pressure that never quite lifted.
Jasmine noticed.
They met during Break 2 at the W6 canteen, trays balanced as they slid into seats near the edge. The afternoon heat pressed in from the open sides, voices and movement filling the space.
"You okay?" Jasmine asked casually, poking at her food. "You've been quiet since morning."
"I'm okay," Hidayah replied. Then, after a beat, "I think."
Jasmine gave her a look but didn't press. Years of friendship had taught her when to let her silence sit.
They ate while Jasmine talked about class—about a facilitator who spoke too fast, about someone who kept asking questions no one wanted to answer. Hidayah listened, nodded, smiled at the right moments.
But her attention drifted.
Tracking movement.
Students walking past.
Someone stopping near a pillar.
Someone else turning back.
"You keep looking around," Jasmine said lightly. "Waiting for someone?"
Hidayah hesitated. "No. Just… distracted."
Jasmine shrugged. "Mid-semester brain. You've been pushing yourself."
Maybe.
But the feeling didn't fade.
The coincidence happened after class.
Hidayah walked toward the bus stop alone, the route slightly adjusted—longer, but more open. Her phone buzzed in her bag. She ignored it, keeping her gaze forward.
That was when she heard her name.
"Hidayah?"
She stopped.
Turned.
Michael stood a few steps away, notebook tucked under his arm, posture relaxed. His expression was neutral, polite—like this was the most ordinary meeting in the world.
Her stomach tightened.
Not fear.
Cognizance. Recognising the weird feeling she has been feeling these past days. But not understanding why…
"Oh," she said evenly. "Hi."
"I thought it might be you," he said, smiling faintly. "We've crossed paths a few times. Same general area for classes, right?"
That was true.
Which was what made it unsettling.
"Yes," she replied. "Some days."
"Funny coincidence," Michael said easily.
Her instincts flagged the timing.
She adjusted her bag strap. "I should go. My bus—"
"Of course," he said at once, stepping aside. "Didn't mean to hold you up."
He didn't ask questions.
Didn't push the conversation. Didn't linger.
He let her go.
That was what bothered her most.
Hidayah boarded the bus with her heartbeat just slightly elevated.
'Nothing happened,' she told herself.
He was polite. Normal.
And yet the unease followed her home.
Not because of what he had done. But because of how precisely he hadn't done anything wrong.
Michael stayed where he was at the bus stop, unmoving, until her bus disappeared from his view.
The contact had been enough.
He'd seen it—the brief stiffening of her shoulders, the way her eyes sharpened before she masked it. Alertness, not fear.
Good.
He wasn't rushing this.
He wanted her to question herself first.
That night, Hidayah messaged Jasmine.
Hidayah: Have you ever run into someone and felt like the timing was wrong, even though nothing actually happened?
The reply came quickly.
Jasmine: That's very specific.
Hidayah: Just wondering.
A pause.
Jasmine: Then trust the feeling. You're not dramatic. You notice things.
Hidayah stared at the message longer than she meant to.
Then she opened another chat.
Khairul.
She kept it brief.
Ran into someone today. It was nothing. Still feels… off.
The reply came a little later.
Coincidences don't usually linger.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
No.They didn't.
That night, Hidayah adjusted her routine again.
Not because she was afraid.
But because she was listening.
And somewhere on campus, Michael smiled.
Because attention—quiet, unsettled attention—was exactly what he wanted.