Saturday arrived without ceremony.
No alarms. No rush. No timetable pulling Hidayah forward by the wrist.
She woke to the faint hum of morning traffic and the muted clink of dishes from the kitchen. Sunlight slipped in through the edge of her curtains, warm but not intrusive, as if the day itself was being careful with her.
For a few seconds, she lay still.
Her body remembered before her mind did.
The grip on her wrist.
The shove.
The sound of her own breath going uneven.
Hidayah inhaled slowly, deliberately, grounding herself in the present—the weight of the blanket, the solid mattress beneath her back, the familiar scent of home.
You're here, she told herself. You're safe.
She sat up.
The mirror across the room caught her reflection: hair loose, eyes clearer than she expected. There was a faint yellowing bruise blooming just above her wrist. She studied it without flinching.
Not fear.
Information.
She showered, took her time with it, letting the water run hot over tense shoulders. Afterward, she dressed simply—soft T-shirt, loose pants—no need for armor today.
When she stepped into the kitchen, her parents were already there.
Her mother glanced up first. Relief crossed her face quickly before she masked it with a smile. "Morning."
"Morning," Hidayah replied.
Her father slid a cup of tea toward her without a word. She accepted it, fingers wrapping around the warmth.
They didn't rush into conversation.
They didn't need to.
Eventually, Kamari spoke, voice calm and even. "We've made arrangements."
Hidayah looked up.
"I'll be adjusting my schedule," he continued. "For the foreseeable future, I'll be the one fetching you. School, clubs, everything. No exceptions."
She nodded. "Okay."
"There will also be follow-ups from the school," he added. "I've already spoken to the relevant offices."
Her mother reached over and squeezed her hand gently. "You don't have to go through this alone."
Hidayah squeezed back. "I know."
And she meant it.
The message came mid-morning.
Khairul: How are you feeling today?
She stared at the screen for a moment before replying.
Hidayah: Tired. But okay.
A pause.
Then:
Khairul: I'm home with no plans this afternoon if you'd like company. No pressure.
She smiled faintly.
Hidayah: I'd like that.
They met later at a quiet café at Northpoint Shopping Centre level 2.
Khairul was already there when she arrived, seated near the window, coffee untouched. He stood immediately when he saw her, concern flickering across his face before he reined it in.
"How's your wrist?" he asked softly.
She lifted it slightly. "Bruised. Nothing serious."
He nodded, eyes darkening briefly, then gestured for her to sit. They talked about ordinary things at first—work, a new place that had opened nearby, a movie Jasmine had insisted they all watch eventually.
Normalcy, rebuilt piece by piece.
At one point, Khairul said quietly, "Your father spoke to me yesterday."
Her brows lifted. "He did?"
"Yes." He hesitated, then added, "He thanked me."
Something warm settled in her chest.
"He trusts you," she said simply.
Khairul met her gaze. "I don't take that lightly."
Neither did she.
They didn't touch much—just the occasional brush of fingers when passing something across the table—but the absence of urgency made it feel more intimate than any grand gesture.
When they parted, it was with an understanding rather than a promise.
Sunday unfolded even more gently.
Hidayah spent the morning helping her mother with chores, moving slowly, deliberately. In the afternoon, Jasmine came over.
The moment the door closed behind her, Jasmine wrapped her in a fierce hug.
"I swear," Jasmine muttered into her shoulder, "if I ever see him again—"
Hidayah laughed softly. "I know."
They sat on her bed afterward, legs crossed, snacks scattered between them.
"You didn't do anything wrong," Jasmine said firmly. "Just in case that thought even tried to sneak in."
Hidayah nodded. "It didn't get the chance."
"Good," Jasmine said. "Because I'm officially in full guard mode now."
Hidayah smiled. "I noticed." She giggled.
They talked about school, about upcoming tests, about nothing and everything. At one point, Jasmine grew quiet.
"You're different," she said finally.
Hidayah tilted her head. "Different how?"
"Stronger," Jasmine said. "Not louder. Just… steadier."
Hidayah considered that. "I have great people around me."
Jasmine grinned. "You still do," and the girls hugged a little more.
That evening, Hidayah sat at her desk, journal open.
She didn't write about fear.
She wrote about boundaries.
About choosing safety without apology.
About the quiet strength of being believed.
When she closed the notebook, she felt lighter.
Her phone buzzed one last time.
Khairul: Rest well tonight.
She typed back:
Hidayah: You too. Thank you—for staying.
She lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the steady rhythm of the house.
The storm had passed.
And in its wake, she wasn't empty.
She was content.