Hidayah woke at 5.10 a.m. as she always did.
The house was still, wrapped in that thin, fragile quiet that only existed before the day made its demands. Before alarms rang in other units. Before neighbours left for work. Before voices layered over one another and movement replaced intention.
She lay still for a few seconds longer than usual, eyes open, listening.
The ceiling fan hummed softly above her. Somewhere in the building, a pipe knocked once, then settled. Nothing else stirred.
Her body felt rested, but alert. Not tense—aware.
She pushed herself upright and folded her blanket neatly, smoothing the edges until they aligned. The small act grounded her more than sleep ever did. Order had always steadied her.
She moved through her routine without rush.
Shower.
Ablution.
Prayer.
Each step is deliberate. Each movement familiar enough to anchor her thoughts when they threatened to wander toward last night—toward the way footsteps had matched hers too perfectly, toward the certainty in Michael's voice when he'd said her name.
By the time she stepped into the kitchen, her hair was tied back and her sleeves rolled up. The scent of garlic and soy sauce greeted her immediately, warm and unmistakable.
Her father was already up.
Mr Kamari stood by the stove, spatula in hand, frying rice with the practiced ease of habit. His movements were economical—no wasted motion, no unnecessary force. The kind of cooking that came from decades of repetition rather than passion.
The morning newspaper lay folded neatly on the dining table beside him, headlines half-hidden. The radio hummed softly in the background, tuned low enough to be present without intruding. A male announcer's voice drifted in and out, speaking about traffic updates and the weather.
"Morning," she said.
He glanced over his shoulder briefly. "Morning."
No surprise. No comment about the hour.
They had always risen early in this house. Early mornings were a discipline, not a sacrifice.
She retrieved two plates from the cupboard and set them on the table. He slid the pan off the heat and served the rice evenly, movements precise. They sat across from each other, the table between them a familiar boundary.
For a while, they ate in silence.
The sound of cutlery against ceramic. The faint rustle of newspaper's as he turned a page. Outside, the first bird calls of the morning filtered through the open window.
Hidayah ate slowly, appetite steady but subdued. She could feel her father's awareness of her without him looking—he had always been good at noticing what wasn't said.
When he folded the newspaper and set it aside, she knew he was ready.
"You came home unsettled last night," he said.
It wasn't a question.
Hidayah nodded once. "I ran into Michael."
The air in the kitchen shifted.
Her father's gaze sharpened immediately—not with anger, but focus. The way a man looked when he identified a variable that needed to be accounted for.
"Where?"
"Near the block. I was walking home."
He leaned back slightly in his chair, posture still relaxed but alert.
"What happened?"
"He followed me for a bit," she said evenly. "Then he confronted me."
"Did he touch you?"
"No."
"Did he threaten you?"
"No."
Each question was precise. Controlled. He wasn't reacting—he was assessing. Building a clear picture, brick by brick.
"What did he say?"
She paused, just long enough to ensure accuracy.
"He said I don't love him anymore."
The kitchen seemed to still.
Even the radio announcer paused between sentences, as if the world itself had drawn a breath.
Mr Kamari frowned slightly. Not deeply—just enough to mark concern.
"Why would he say that?"
"I don't know," Hidayah replied. "I've never been involved with him. Not ever. I don't know where he got that idea."
Her father studied her closely now. Not testing her honesty—he had never doubted that—but gauging her certainty. Looking for cracks in conviction.
There were none.
"That's not rejection," he said quietly. "That's fixation."
The word landed heavily between them.
"He's reacting to something that never existed," Mr Kamari continued. "And that makes this more serious."
Hidayah nodded. She had felt it too—the way Michael hadn't sounded hurt, only affronted. As if something owed to him had been withdrawn without explanation.
"I already made a police report before," she said. "After the earlier incident."
"I know," her father replied. "And this adds to it."
He leaned forward now, forearms resting on the table, voice lowering slightly.
"This needs to be raised to the school again. Student Affairs. His counsellor. They need to know exactly what he said."
"I'll do it during Break Two," Hidayah said without hesitation.
"Good."
He straightened, decision settling into place.
"We'll keep the same arrangement as before."
She looked up.
"I'll fetch you after school," he said evenly. "If I can't make it, you ask Khairul. If he can't make it either, you take a cab home with Jasmine—like before."
He met her eyes fully.
"That's final."
Something inside her loosened at the firmness of it.
Not fear.
Relief.
"Okay," she said quietly.
He nodded once, the matter closed.
But as he rose to rinse his plate, she noticed something else—his jaw was tighter than usual. A subtle sign, but one she recognised.
He was worried.
School felt louder than usual that day.
Not because anything had changed—but because she had.
Students moved between buildings in clusters, voices overlapping in a constant hum. Laughter, complaints about lectures, animated debates about lunch options and deadlines. Life unfolding at its usual pace, oblivious to the undercurrents running beneath it.
Hidayah walked steadily beside Jasmine, her pace measured. She listened more than she spoke, responding when necessary, nodding at the right moments. Her awareness stayed outward, scanning reflections in windows, noting who walked too close, who lingered.
Twice, she thought she saw someone pause when she passed.
Both times, it turned out to be nothing.
During Break Two, she slowed.
"I need to go to Student Affairs," she said.
Jasmine stopped immediately. "About him?"
"Yes."
Jasmine's jaw tightened. "Okay. I'll wait here."
No questions. No insistence on accompanying her. Jasmine understood when to stand beside and when to hold position.
The Student Affairs office was cool and smelled faintly of paper and disinfectant. The hum of air-conditioning filled the space. A staff member looked up from her desk and motioned Hidayah to sit.
Hidayah laid everything out calmly.
The previous incident.
The police report.
The confrontation near her home.
She repeated Michael's words precisely, without embellishment, explaining why they mattered—not emotionally, but contextually. The staff member took notes by hand, pen moving steadily.
"Has he attempted contact since?"
"No."
"Were there any witnesses?"
"No."
"Did you feel physically threatened?"
"No—but I assessed it as escalating."
The staff member paused, pen hovering.
"That assessment is noted," she said.
"This will be escalated to his assigned counsellor," she continued. "Campus security will also be informed. He will be instructed not to approach you."
"And if he does?" Hidayah asked.
"That will be treated as a serious breach."
Hidayah inclined her head. "Thank you."
As she left the office, she felt drained—not from fear, but from vigilance. From staying controlled while recounting something that should never have required such composure.
Still, she felt steadier than she had in days.
Jasmine was exactly where she had promised to wait.
"How did it go?" she asked.
"They're escalating it," Hidayah replied.
"Good," Jasmine said immediately. No hesitation. No doubt.
They walked together after that, shoulder to shoulder. Jasmine talked about an upcoming assignment, about a lecturer who never answered emails. Normal things. Anchors.
Hidayah pulled out her BlackBerry Pearl and typed quickly.
Hidayah: I told Student Affairs. They're escalating it.
The reply came shortly after.
Khairul: Good. I'm glad you did.
She typed again.
Hidayah: My dad is fetching us after school. Same arrangement as before.
A pause.
Khairul: Understood. I'll be around if needed.
No fuss.
No dramatics.
Just presence.
The afternoon passed without incident, but not without pressure.
Hidayah noticed more eyes than usual. Or perhaps she was simply more aware of them now. She kept her posture neutral, her pace steady. She did not rush. She did not linger.
When classes ended and the sky began to soften toward evening, she exhaled slowly.
Hidayah and Jasmine walked toward the pickup point together. The familiar car was already there when they arrived.
Mr Kamari stepped out briefly, nodding once at Jasmine.
"Get in."
The word wasn't curt.
Just final.
They settled into the back seat. The doors closed with solid clicks. As the car pulled away, Hidayah watched the campus recede through the window—buildings shrinking, students dissolving into motion.
She didn't feel watched.
She felt… contained.
Protected, not controlled.
Jasmine leaned over slightly. "Your dad's serious."
"He always is," Hidayah replied.
As the car merged into traffic, the tension in her chest eased just enough for her to breathe properly.
Whatever came next—
She wouldn't be facing it alone.
And that, she knew, would make all the difference.