The notice was pinned crookedly.
White paper.
Black text.
A slightly torn corner that suggested hesitation — as if someone had tried to remove it once, fingers curling around the edge, then stopped and left it where it was.
Hidayah saw it before she meant to.
She had been walking past the sports hall on instinct, bag slung over one shoulder, body still half in training mode. Her steps were measured, awareness diffused outward the way it always was after long sessions — noticing floor texture, doorways, reflections in glass.
She wasn't looking for anything.
Which was why the cluster of students near the notice board stood out.
They weren't loud. No excited shouts, no phones lifted for photos. Their voices were low, compressed, charged with interest rather than celebration. The kind of sound people made when they were careful not to be overheard — or when they knew something mattered.
Hidayah slowed.
Her body registered it before her mind did.
Then she stopped.
Her gaze lifted, following the line of bodies to the board behind them.
The paper wasn't large. Just A4. Plain. The formatting minimal, utilitarian.
INTER-POLYTECHNIC PENCAK SILAT INVITATIONAL
Selected Participants
Her heart gave a single, heavy beat.
She didn't move closer right away.
She didn't need to.
The shape of the moment had already been pressing against her for days. It had lived in the spaces Coach Azrul left between corrections, in the way he sometimes watched instead of intervening. In the shift from repetition to scrutiny — when drills stopped being about improvement and started being about exposure.
Still, she stepped forward.
One pace.
Then another.
She read the list once.
Names she recognised. Some she didn't.
Then she read it again, slower.
Her own name sat in the middle.
Unadorned.
No bolding.
No annotation.
Just fact.
Hidayah.
She felt the breath leave her before she consciously released it. It wasn't relief that followed — no surge of pride, no rush of adrenaline. Just a quiet settling, like a weight finally choosing where to rest.
So this was it.
Beside her, someone whispered congratulations to someone else. A phone camera clicked discreetly. The paper fluttered slightly as someone brushed past.
Jasmine appeared at her side without warning, as she always did, shoulder nudging hers gently.
"You're on it," Jasmine said softly.
Hidayah nodded. "Yeah."
The word felt sufficient.
No jumping.
No squealing.
No instinctive urge to message anyone.
She stood there another second longer than necessary, committing the sight to memory, then stepped back.
Coach Azrul's voice cut through the murmur not long after.
"Those selected, stay behind after training."
The air shifted. Some students straightened. Others glanced away.
Hidayah met his gaze across the hall. He gave no outward sign of recognition, but she inclined her head slightly anyway.
"Yes, Coach."
He didn't smile.
Neither did she.
The briefing happened after the hall emptied.
The soundscape changed — echoing footsteps gone, replaced by the hum of lights and the scuff of bare feet against the mat. The selected group stood in a loose line, not quite formal, not relaxed either.
"This competition will draw attention," Coach Azrul said, arms folded. His voice carried easily in the quiet space. "From judges. From other schools. From people who study patterns and look for cracks."
He paced once, slow, deliberate. Not to intimidate — to ensure they were following.
"You are not here because you are flashy," he continued. "You are here because you are disciplined."
His gaze moved across them, assessing posture, presence. When it reached Hidayah, it lingered just a fraction longer.
"Do not mistake selection for safety," he said. "Visibility invites pressure."
The words settled heavily.
Hidayah absorbed them without reaction. She had learned early that attention was rarely harmless. That being seen often came with expectations that had nothing to do with who you actually were.
"Train accordingly," Coach Azrul concluded. "Dismissed."
They bowed. Formality restored.
As Hidayah turned to leave, she felt it again — that subtle shift where effort stopped being private. Where improvement became something others measured, dissected.
Being chosen wasn't the end of scrutiny.
It was the beginning of it.
She left campus later than usual that evening.
The sun had already dipped below the horizon, the sky settling into a muted grey-blue that made streetlights glow prematurely. The air was warm, thick with humidity, carrying distant traffic noise and the muffled sounds of evening routines starting elsewhere.
Routine.
Bus. Walk. Home.
She boarded, took her usual seat by the window, muscles heavy in a familiar, earned way. As the bus pulled away, campus lights receded into reflections on the glass.
Her thoughts circled the same point without landing.
Visibility invites pressure.
She wondered, briefly, who had written her name on the list. Whether the pen had hesitated.
When she alighted at her stop, the street was quieter than usual. Residential. Familiar. The kind of place where routine bred invisibility — where neighbours stopped noticing each other.
She adjusted her bag and began walking.
That was when the sensation crept in.
Not sudden.
Not sharp.
Just… awareness.
Her steps slowed slightly.
The sound behind her adjusted too.
Footsteps.
Measured.
Even.
Not rushing.
Not dragging.
She didn't turn. Didn't tense.
Awareness without force.
She crossed the road at the next junction.
The footsteps crossed as well.
Her pulse ticked up — not into fear, but into readiness. She altered her pace again, subtly.
The distance behind her stayed the same.
Too consistent.
Her fingers curled tighter around her bag strap.
At the corner, she stopped abruptly.
The footsteps stopped too.
She turned.
Michael stood a few metres away.
Not close enough to touch.
Not far enough to dismiss.
Streetlight caught the edge of his face, casting the rest into shadow. He looked the same — familiar in a way that made her stomach drop.
Not fear.
Recognition.
"You're walking differently," he said.
Her spine went rigid.
"What do you want?" she asked.
His gaze travelled over her — stance, balance, the way her weight was grounded rather than drifting.
"You've changed," he said. "You used to float. Now you're always braced."
She said nothing.
He stepped closer.
She didn't retreat.
"Why are you avoiding me?" he demanded. "You won't even look at me anymore."
"I don't owe you anything," she replied, voice even.
His jaw tightened.
"You used to," he snapped. "You used to build your whole world around me."
Her expression didn't shift.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
The denial sharpened him.
"You're pretending," he said. "Like I don't exist. Like none of it mattered."
"You're right. You don't," she said.
The word landed between them like a dropped blade.
For a moment, she thought he might reach for her.
Her body adjusted automatically — centre lowering, balance shifting.
He noticed.
Something dark flickered in his eyes.
"You're afraid of me now," he said.
"No," she replied. "I'm aware of you."
The distinction angered him more.
Before he could speak again, a car turned into the street, headlights washing over them. The intrusion fractured the moment.
Michael stepped back instinctively.
He stared at her for a long second longer — searching for something she no longer offered.
Then he turned and walked away.
Not hurried.
Not calm.
Controlled.
Hidayah waited until he disappeared before moving.
She didn't run.
But she didn't slow either.
Inside her apartment, she locked the door and leaned back against it, breath shallow. The quiet pressed in, louder now.
Her phone buzzed.
Khairul: You home?
She stared at the screen.
Then typed.
Hidayah: Just got in.
A pause.
Khairul: You sound tight.
She exhaled slowly.
Hidayah: Competition list went up today.
Another pause. Longer.
Khairul: That explains it.
Her brows furrowed.
Hidayah: Explains what?
Silence.
Then:
Khairul: Pressure always leaks before it shows.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
She didn't tell him about Michael.
Not yet.
But sitting there in the dim light, listening to the hum of the city, she understood something clearly.
The competition wasn't just a test.
It was a signal.
A beacon.
And somewhere close enough to follow her footsteps—
Someone had already noticed the light.