The rain came without warning.
It wasn't heavy.
Just a soft, persistent drizzle that dampened the pavements and softened the air, turning the late afternoon into something quieter than usual.
Hidayah liked days like this.
She walked slower on purpose, backpack snug against her shoulders, the familiar weight grounding rather than tiring. The week had been demanding — physically, mentally — but today, for once, there was no urgency clawing at her chest.
No drills to replay.
No mistakes looping in her mind.
No pressure pressing down on her ribs.
Just… space.
Her phone buzzed.
Jasmine: You done yet or still pretending to be mysterious and hardworking
Hidayah smiled to herself.
Hidayah: Done. Library entrance. Five minutes.
Jasmine: Good. I'm starving and if you make me wait I'm eating without you.
A lie.
They both knew it.
They met at the library entrance like they always did — a habit so ingrained it no longer needed planning. Jasmine was already there, tote bag slung over one shoulder, hair slightly frizzy from the humidity, expression dramatic as always.
"You look suspiciously calm," Jasmine said, narrowing her eyes.
"Am I not allowed to be calm?"
"No. Something's wrong."
She paused mid-step, actually studying Hidayah now.
Hidayah laughed softly. "Training was… good today."
"Good like actually good, or good like I survived?"
"Good like I didn't feel like my brain was trying to outrun my body."
Jasmine's expression softened immediately.
"That's new," she said.
"Yeah."
They started walking, steps naturally falling into sync. Outside, the campus felt quieter — fewer voices, less movement. Most students had already left, escaping the rain.
"Dinner?" Jasmine asked. "Causeway Point?"
Hidayah nodded. "Karaoke after?"
Jasmine grinned. "Now that sounds like emotional recovery."
They went to their usual place — bright lights, laminated menus, the comfortable noise of cutlery and chatter. Nothing special. Which made it perfect.
"What you want?" Jasmine asked, flipping the menu.
"Same," Hidayah said automatically.
Jasmine laughed. "You always say that and then complain that mine looks nicer."
"That's because you order with intention."
Food came quickly. Steam curled upward, warmth settling into Hidayah's hands as she wrapped her fingers around her drink.
"So," Jasmine said, mouth full, "what actually shifted today?"
Hidayah thought for a moment. "I stopped forcing it."
"Training-wise?"
"Everything-wise," she said quietly. "I let the movement happen instead of controlling every part."
Jasmine smiled, softer now. "That's not small."
Hidayah shrugged. "It felt… lighter."
They ate slowly. Talk drifted — nonsense, half-serious observations, shared complaints. Nothing urgent. Nothing demanding.
By the time they left, Hidayah realized she wasn't drained.
She felt settled.
The karaoke lounge was dim, familiar, and mercifully empty.
They bought KOI first, ordered snacks, claimed a corner room, and kicked off their shoes immediately. No discussion. No ceremony.
Jasmine queued the first song without asking.
A Korean ballad.
Of course.
Hidayah groaned. "No…. You couldn't warm up first?"
"You need feelings," Jasmine said. "Trust me."
The intro started before Hidayah could argue. She sighed, took the mic.
The first note came out tentative.
The second steadier.
By the chorus, her voice filled the room — controlled, warm, carrying emotion she hadn't quite named yet.
She didn't think.
Didn't brace.
She just sang.
When it ended, Jasmine clapped like she was front row at a concert.
"See? Therapy."
Hidayah laughed, breathing lighter.
They sang for nearly an hour — Malay songs, Japanese Pop, more Korean Ballads, English throwbacks, one disastrously off-key duet that had them laughing until their sides hurt.
At some point, Hidayah noticed something.
She wasn't checking her phone.
She wasn't watching the door.
Her shoulders were relaxed.
That alone felt like progress.
Later that evening, after Jasmine headed home, Hidayah walked slower toward the bus stop.
The rain had stopped. The pavement glistened under the streetlights, reflecting yellow and white like quiet stars.
Her phone buzzed.
Khairul: You alive?
She smiled.
Hidayah: Barely. Karaoke abuse.
A pause.
Khairul: That sounds serious. Need backup?
She hesitated — only for a moment.
Hidayah: Maybe. Just a walk.
The reply came almost instantly.
Khairul: On my way.
They didn't say much at first.
Just walked.
Side by side. Comfortable distance. No urgency.
Khairul wore jeans and a dark hoodie, hands tucked into his pockets, posture relaxed in a way she didn't often see. No authority. No training intensity.
Just… Khairul.
"You seem lighter," he said eventually.
"I feel lighter."
He nodded. "Alhamdulillah."
They passed the park, air cool and faintly damp with the scent of wet grass.
"My coach pushed us hard this week," she said. "But today… it clicked."
"Awareness without force?" he guessed.
She glanced at him. "You've been saying that for ages."
"And you finally listened."
She scoffed. "Rude."
He smiled. "True though."
They slowed. Eventually stopped beneath a streetlight.
"You okay?" he asked, quieter now.
"I think… for once, I am."
He studied her — not searching, not probing. Just being present.
Then he reached out.
Not sudden.
Not demanding.
His hand rested lightly over hers.
Warm. Steady.
He didn't tighten his grip. Didn't shift closer. His thumb stayed still, hovering rather than tracing, as if aware of the exact line he was standing on.
She shifted slightly — not away, just enough to test the moment.
He didn't follow.
"You okay?" he asked again.
"Yeah," she said. "You?"
A controlled breath left him. Almost a smile.
"I'm… steady."
Not fine.
Not okay.
Steady.
His gaze drifted — the pavement, the park lights — anywhere but the weight of her face. She realized then that this was an effort. Not distance.
Discipline.
"You're always like this?" she asked lightly. "So composed."
He let out a quiet huff. "You think this is composed?"
"You don't rush things," she said.
"Some things shouldn't be rushed."
No lecture. No emphasis. Just truth, delivered the way he talked about training — respect for timing, for process.
After a moment, he shifted his hand. Not closer. Not away.
Then he let go.
The space returned between them, chosen rather than lost.
"I'll walk you home," he said.
They moved again. Easy. Quiet.
When they reached it, he slowed first.
"Text me when you get settled."
"I will."
He nodded once, satisfied.
When he turned away, he didn't look back.
As Hidayah laid down on her bed, she realized something important.
This wasn't avoidance.
This wasn't denial.
This was recovery.
And she allowed herself to enjoy it.
Just for tonight.