Michael did not sleep.
He lay on his back with his hands folded over his chest, staring at the ceiling as the fan turned above him in slow, uneven rotations. The faint creak of its motor punctuated the silence, each sound too loud in the stillness of the room. Shadows moved across the plaster, slicing the darkness into repeating segments, like time broken into pieces that refused to advance.
He counted the rotations once.
Seventy-two.
Lost track.
Started again.
His phone lay face down beside the pillow. No vibrations. No notifications. No accidental brushes against the world he had been forcibly removed from. He had stopped checking hours ago. Or maybe days. Time had loosened its grip since the suspension notice arrived.
Morning came without warning.
Not through sunlight or birdsong, but through the quiet click of his bedroom door opening and closing again. His mother never entered. She simply left the envelope on his desk, aligned with the edge, neat and precise in a way that made his stomach tighten.
Michael sat up slowly.
His body felt heavy, sluggish, as though gravity had increased overnight. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stared at the envelope for a long moment before picking it up. It was thicker than he expected.
He already knew what it said.
That didn't stop his pulse from quickening when he unfolded it.
NOTICE OF DISCIPLINARY ACTION
Republic Polytechnic
Following investigation into serious misconduct in violation of the Student Code of Conduct, the student Michael Ng Kok Hui is hereby suspended for one academic semester.
He skimmed at first, eyes moving quickly, dismissively. Restricted campus access. Mandatory counselling sessions. Behavioural review upon return. A note about escalation should further incidents occur.
The word misconduct lodged itself in his chest.
He read the letter again, slower this time, anger seeping into his bones. The language was clinical, distant, scrubbed clean of emotion — as if what had happened could be reduced to bullet points and policy clauses.
They had written it like he was unstable.
Like he was unpredictable.
Like he had snapped without reason.
Michael folded the letter once, twice, then dropped it onto the desk with more force than necessary. The sound echoed sharply in the quiet room.
"They're wrong," he muttered.
He stood abruptly, pacing the length of his room. His fists clenched and unclenched as thoughts collided and scattered. They hadn't included context. They hadn't written about provocation. About confusion. About how everything had escalated too quickly.
He hadn't planned to touch her.
He hadn't planned to raise his voice.
He had only wanted her to look at him.
That was all.
The call came just before noon.
Michael was standing in the kitchen, reheating a mug of coffee he had forgotten to drink twice already, when his phone buzzed in his hand. He glanced at the screen.
Coach Rahman.
His jaw tightened.
For a brief moment, he considered not answering. Letting it ring. Pretending he hadn't seen it. But something colder, more resigned, settled over him.
He answered.
"Sir."
There was no greeting on the other end.
"I've been informed of the disciplinary action taken by the school," the coach said, voice calm, professional, already removed from familiarity. "Effective immediately, you are removed from the rugby squad."
The words landed cleanly.
Removed.
Not suspended.
Not temporarily sidelined.
Removed.
Michael straightened, the mug rattling softly against the counter.
"Sir, this has nothing to do with rugby."
A pause.
"It has everything to do with conduct," Coach Rahman replied. "You wear the team's colours. You represent the school and the team when you're on and off the field."
Michael swallowed.
"I didn't start anything."
"That's not what the investigation found."
Investigation.
Witnesses.
Statements.
Everyone had an opinion now.
"You're talented," the coach continued, his tone softening just slightly. "But talent doesn't excuse volatility. I can't afford instability on the team."
Volatility.
The word crawled under Michael's skin.
The call ended soon after, polite and final.
Michael stood in the kitchen long after the screen went dark. The coffee grew cold in his hand. Rugby had been structure. An outlet. A place where aggression was measured, controlled, rewarded.
Now it was gone.
Just like that.
Dinner that evening felt like a tribunal.
His mother cooked in silence, movements clipped and precise, as if any deviation might cause something to shatter. His younger sister stayed locked in her room. His father sat at the dining table, hands folded, posture rigid.
No one ate.
"Do you understand the seriousness of what you've done?" his father asked.
Michael scoffed softly. "I defended myself."
His father's eyes sharpened. "You grabbed a female student in public."
"I didn't hurt her."
The room went still.
His mother turned away abruptly, one hand braced against the counter. Her shoulders rose and fell unevenly.
"You frightened her," she said quietly, without turning back.
Michael laughed, short and brittle. "She's exaggerating."
The chopsticks clattered loudly against porcelain.
His father leaned forward. "You are suspended. Removed from your team. Your name is now on record." His voice dropped. "Do you know what this does to your future?"
"They chose her," Michael snapped.
Silence fell again.
His father stared at him. "Who?"
Michael didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
That night, alone in his room, Michael replayed memories like evidence laid out on a table.
Not the confrontation.
Not the guards.
Not the moment he was restrained.
He went further back.
To the way she used to wait for him without being asked.
The way she adjusted her schedule around his moods. How she noticed when he was restless, angry, withdrawn — and adapted herself accordingly.
That wasn't imagined.
That wasn't delusion.
She had loved him.
The memory rose unbidden.
Sentosa, Siloso Beach.
Her eighteenth birthday.
The beach had been lit with strings of warm fairy lights, bulbs swaying gently in the night breeze. Jasmine and her parents had planned everything — food, music, laughter woven into the salt air. Sand underfoot. Waves breaking softly in the distance.
Hidayah had worn white.
Simple. Bright. Alive.
She had smiled at him like he belonged there.
Michael remembered standing close, remembered how easily his arm had rested around her waist. How natural it had felt. As though that place had always been his.
That night had been perfect.
Because she had been his.
Or at least, he had believed so.
The memory twisted now, sharp and sour.
If she could erase him — if she could step into a new life and shut him out completely — then something had gone wrong.
Something had interfered.
Khairul.
The name pressed against his ribs like a bruise.
A man who appeared exactly when Michael lost access. Who stood too close. Who touched her like he had earned the right.
Michael's fists tightened.
They thought removing him would end it.
They were wrong.
The weeks that followed stretched thin.
Semester Three began without him.
From the outside, Michael watched the campus move on — photos, second-hand updates, passing mentions online. Hidayah walked through her days untouched by his absence.
That was the part that hurt the most.
She should have been shaken.
Instead, she looked steady.
Protected.
The realisation hollowed him out.
If she could be this calm without him, then what did that say about everything he remembered?
Michael stood at his window one night, streetlights flickering below, and felt something settle inside him.
Suspension was not an ending.
It was an opening.
Time to think. To observe. To plan.
Because some things, once taken, were never truly gone.
They were just delayed.
Far away, Hidayah slept peacefully.
Unaware that while she had stepped into Year Two lighter and freer —
Someone else was learning how to move in the dark.