Thursday meant quiet.
No choir bag at the sports hall entrance.
No familiar figure waiting by the railing.
No shared walk to the bus stop.
Jasmine had already gone home.
She always did on Thursdays.
Be careful, Jasmine had texted earlier, the message casual enough not to invite worry—but Hidayah felt the weight behind it.
Silat training ended late that evening.
The coach was relentless; drills were repeated until shoulders burnt and legs trembled. By the time Hidayah stepped into the showers, the sports hall echoed hollowly, the way it always did after most students had left.
She didn't linger.
Quick shower.
Hair tied back.
Bag over the shoulder.
Thursday required awareness.
She exited with two other silat girls, their conversation light as they crossed the open path together. Near the bridge, they split off in different directions.
"See you next week!" one of them said.
"See you next week," Hidayah replied with a soft smile.
Then… she was alone.
The campus at night wasn't empty—but it was thinner. Sounds carried farther. Shadows stretched longer between buildings.
She adjusted her route without consciously deciding.
Library.
Bright. Public. Safe.
The South Library welcomed her with cool air-conditioning and familiar quiet.
Students occupied most of the tables, heads bent over laptops, murmurs threading through the silence. The normalcy steadied her breathing.
She chose a central table.
Not near the walls.
Not near the windows.
Laptop out. Notes open.
Focus.
Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
The feeling returned.
Not fear.
Pressure.
Like a presence resting just outside her awareness.
Hidayah didn't look up immediately.
She scrolled.
Adjusted her glasses.
Typed a line she didn't read.
When she finally lifted her head, she saw him in the glass partition.
Michael.
Standing near the shelves.
Not browsing.
Not holding a book.
Not moving.
Just watching.
Her fingers froze.
This time, there was no buffer.
No Jasmine.
No Arnold.
Michael turned slightly, as if sensing her attention. Their eyes met through reflection.
He smiled.
Small. Controlled.
Hidayah closed her laptop.
The sound snapped sharply through the quiet hall.
She stood and walked past him without hesitation.
He stepped aside politely.
"Didn't mean to startle you," he said, voice low.
Her voice stayed steady. "You didn't."
Another lie.
She didn't stop walking.
Outside, the air felt heavier.
She moved toward the brighter corridor, away from the sports hall, away from the shadows. Only when she reached the library entrance again did she slow.
Her phone vibrated.
An unregistered number
Michael here. Sorry if that was awkward. We seem to keep crossing paths.
Her stomach dropped.
She stared at the screen.
I never gave him my number.
Her fingers hovered—but she didn't type.
Didn't block.
Didn't respond.
Instead, she hit Call.
Khairul picked up on the second ring.
"Hidayah?"
"I didn't give him my number," she said immediately, voice tight, panicky. "Michael... I never gave it to him."
Silence—brief, sharp.
"Where are you?" Khairul asked.
"South Library. Inside."
"Stay there," he said, his tone shifting instantly. "Don't leave. I'm on the way."
Her grip tightened around her phone. "Khairul—"
"I'm coming," he repeated. "Just stay where there are people."
She nodded even though he couldn't see her. "Okay."
The call ended.
Hidayah stayed by the library entrance, back against the wall, eyes scanning the space without panic—but without denial either.
The pattern was real now.
And she was no longer handling it alone.
Elsewhere on campus, Michael slowed his steps.
No reply.
No reaction.
But not blocked.
Interesting.
He smiled faintly.
Thursday had revealed something important.
She was no longer dismissing the pattern. Which meant Friday would require restraint. And patience, after all, had always been his strength.