Semester Three arrived quietly.
There were no announcements that mattered to her. No grand sense of beginning or ending. Just a subtle shift in the air, like the campus had exhaled and rearranged itself while everyone was asleep.
New faces appeared in familiar spaces. Different voices filled classrooms. People sat where others used to sit, laughed where someone else once had. The names on screens changed. The expectations shifted.
Hidayah noticed it, acknowledged it—and let it pass.
What stayed were the constants.
She woke before the alarm, as she had been doing for weeks now. The house was still, the sky outside her window a soft blue-grey that hinted at dawn. She moved quietly, automatically—shower, ablution, prayer—each step grounding her in the present.
No rush. No heaviness.
She dressed simply. Jeans. A clean t-shirt. Shoes she trusted to carry her through long days. Her hair tied back, out of her face.
In the kitchen, her father read the news while sipping his coffee. Her mother moved between the counter and the sink, already halfway through the morning routine.
"Eat," her mother reminded her, sliding a plate toward her.
Hidayah did.
No one mentioned last semester. No one needed to. The unspoken understanding between them was stronger than conversation.
They left the house together, as they always had.
Jasmine was waiting under her block, already scrolling through her phone, tote bag slung over one shoulder. She climbed into the back seat with a familiar grin.
"Morning," she said, like this hadn't been the pattern since they were teenagers.
"Morning," Hidayah replied, equally easy.
The car pulled away smoothly.
It felt… normal.
And this time, normal didn't feel fragile.
Campus looked the same.
Walkways stretched between buildings. Students flowed past each other in loose currents. Conversations overlapped, laughter burst and faded, footsteps echoed briefly before being swallowed by distance.
But Hidayah moved differently now.
She no longer scanned faces out of instinct. No longer flinched when someone walked too close behind her. She noticed people—but she didn't brace for them.
She walked with Jasmine until their paths diverged, exchanged a casual wave, and continued on alone.
New semester. New classmates. New groups.
She didn't cling to familiarity in academic spaces anymore. She let herself float, observe, adjust. She contributed when needed, listened when appropriate, and didn't force connections that didn't naturally form.
Some people would matter.
Most wouldn't.
And that was okay.
Breaks came and went. Conversations stayed light. Nothing tugged at her attention too sharply.
At lunch, she checked her phone.
A message from Khairul sat there, simple and unintrusive.
Did you eat?
She smiled before replying.
Yes.
Another message came a few minutes later.
Good.
That was all.
It was enough.
She ate with Jasmine that day, the two of them sharing food and small stories, nothing heavy. No processing. No debriefing. Just presence.
Afterward, Hidayah sent her father a short message.
Studying a bit after class. Will update.
The reply came almost immediately.
Alright.
No follow-up questions.
Trust, quietly reinforced.
Midweek brought familiar relief.
Wednesday and Thursday were silat days.
The sports hall greeted her like a second home—echoing footsteps, controlled breathing, the faint scent of sweat and disinfectant. She changed quickly, tied her hair back tighter, and stepped onto the mat with purpose.
Her body remembered.
The movements came naturally. Footwork precise. Balance steady. She flowed through drills with a confidence that caught the attention of seniors and juniors alike.
She wasn't showy.
She didn't need to be.
Those who knew, knew.
Water breaks were short. Conversations brief but companionable. The shared understanding between practitioners ran deeper than small talk.
Thursday followed the same rhythm.
By the time she left the hall that evening, muscles pleasantly sore, mind clear, she felt anchored again.
On Fridays, everything slowed.
Archery demanded patience.
The range was quieter, the atmosphere almost meditative. She unpacked her bow with care, fingers checking familiar components, tension calibrated just right.
Arnold waved when he saw her, already setting up his equipment.
"You're consistent," he commented.
She shrugged. "It helps."
They trained side by side, words exchanged only when necessary. The release of the string, the soft impact of arrows meeting target—it steadied her breathing, sharpened her focus.
This was where her thoughts settled.
After practice, Jasmine met them as planned. Some routines didn't change just because semesters did.
They walked together toward the exit, conversation drifting easily between them.
Some evenings, they did things that had nothing to do with growth or healing.
Karaoke at Causeway Point.
A small room. Bright screens. Snacks scattered across the table. Jasmine sang without shame, dramatic and unapologetic. Arnold laughed. Hidayah joined in when the mood struck her, voice steady, unforced.
Laughter filled the space where tension used to sit.
No one asked her how she was coping.
No one needed to.
At night, she texted Khairul.
Sometimes about her day. Sometimes about nothing at all.
He never pressed. Never filled the silence when it didn't need filling.
He simply stayed.
By Sunday evening, she found herself reflecting—not on fear, but on rhythm.
Her days had shape now.
Mornings grounded. Afternoons purposeful. Evenings balanced between effort and rest.
She wasn't pretending the past hadn't happened.
She just wasn't living inside it anymore.
Somewhere, someone else might still be spiralling.
But here, in this life, Hidayah allowed herself to exist without bracing for impact.
For now, that was enough.