The week that followed felt almost… ordinary.
That was what unsettled Hidayah most.
Ordinary meant routines settling into place without resistance. It meant waking up without that tight coil of anticipation in her chest, the one that used to greet her before her eyes even opened. Ordinary meant walking through campus without constantly checking reflections in glass panels, without mentally counting footsteps behind her or mapping exits the moment she entered a space.
Ordinary meant safety.
And safety, after everything, felt like learning a new language.
At first, she kept waiting for the catch.
For the moment something would snap back into place — a shadow too close, a voice where it shouldn't be, a disruption sharp enough to remind her why she'd learned vigilance in the first place. But the days kept moving forward quietly. Predictably.
Khairul didn't insert himself into her life.
He didn't hover. Didn't check in every hour. Didn't appear where she hadn't invited him. Instead, he anchored himself at the edges — present without crowding, steady without demanding space.
Some mornings it was just a short message, sent early enough that she knew he'd already been up for a while.
Reached work. Eat properly.
Other times it was a voice note sent during her lunch break, his voice low and unhurried, background noise faint.
I'll be done late today. Let your dad fetch you. I'll see you tomorrow.
No guilt.
No pressure.
Just consistency.
That consistency seeped into her bones in ways she hadn't realised she needed.
It didn't make her feel watched.
It made her feel held — not by surveillance, but by reliability.
And that, more than anything, was new.
Tuesday
Hidayah finished her last class just past 3:00 p.m. and headed toward the library with Jasmine, both having released early from class, their backpacks thumping lightly against their shoulders as they walked. The air felt warmer than usual, thick with the kind of humidity that clung to skin and patience alike.
"I swear," Jasmine muttered, "if I hear the phrase learning outcomes one more time, I'm transferring to interpretive dance."
"You hate dancing," Hidayah pointed out.
"I hate rubrics more."
They laughed, the sound easy, unforced.
They'd just crossed the open courtyard when Jasmine slowed slightly, studying her from the corner of her eye.
"You look… different," Jasmine said.
Hidayah blinked. "Different how?"
"Like you're not bracing for impact anymore," Jasmine said, adjusting the strap of her tote bag. "You're still alert, but you're not tense. It's like… you're upright instead of crouched."
Hidayah considered that as they climbed the library steps.
"I think," she said slowly, "I finally stopped feeling like I had to survive every day."
Jasmine stopped walking.
That made Hidayah stop too.
They looked at each other for a moment, something quiet and understanding passing between them.
"Well," Jasmine said eventually, clearing her throat lightly, "that's about damn time."
Hidayah smiled.
They settled into a corner table by the windows, laptops open, notes spread between them. Outside, the late afternoon sun slanted through the glass, casting warm light over their pages and turning dust motes into something almost decorative.
Normal.
Quiet.
Good.
They worked in companionable silence for a while, broken only by the occasional whisper or exaggerated sigh when Jasmine hit a particularly dense paragraph.
Halfway through reviewing, Hidayah's phone buzzed.
Khairul: Your dad told me you're studying late. Don't forget to drink water.
She smiled before she could stop herself.
Jasmine noticed immediately.
"Oh no," Jasmine said lightly. "That's the smile."
Hidayah frowned. "It's not a smile. It's a face."
"It's absolutely a smile."
"It's neutral."
"Your neutral doesn't tilt at the corners like that."
Hidayah rolled her eyes, but she didn't argue.
Thursday Evening
Khairul waited in his car outside her block, engine idling softly, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel. He'd offered to fetch her — carefully, without assumption — and she'd agreed just as carefully.
When she climbed in, the air between them felt easy, like a conversation already mid-sentence.
"How was silat?" he asked as he pulled away from the curb.
"Coach Azrul made us repeat footwork drills until my legs felt like jelly," she said. "Which probably means it was effective."
He chuckled. "He's thorough."
"He's terrifying," she corrected. "In a productive way."
"That's usually the best kind."
They drove in companionable silence for a while, city lights flickering past, the hum of traffic forming a familiar backdrop.
"Hidayah," Khairul said eventually.
She turned toward him, already listening.
"I don't want you to mistake calm for complacency," he said. "Just because things are quiet now doesn't mean I'm any less aware."
"I know," she said softly.
"And if at any point you feel something's off — anything at all — you tell me. Even if you can't explain it."
She nodded. "I will."
He didn't press for reassurance.
He didn't need it.
Saturday
The weekend unfolded gently.
Groceries with her mother, walking the familiar aisles and debating brands like it was a sport. Laundry humming in the background while the house filled with the smell of detergent and afternoon heat. Jasmine dropping by unannounced, flopping dramatically onto the couch and declaring herself emotionally exhausted from existing.
"Did you do anything strenuous?" Hidayah asked dryly.
"I had to make decisions," Jasmine said. "Terrible ones."
Khairul didn't come over.
He didn't need to.
In the evening, Hidayah sat on her bed scrolling through photos on her phone — small moments captured without intention. A blurry picture of Jasmine laughing mid-sentence. A snapshot of her silat team after training, sweat-soaked and triumphant.
Her phone buzzed.
Khairul: Didn't want to interrupt family time. Just checking in.
She typed back.
I'm good. Calm, actually.
There was a pause before his reply.
I'm glad.
She set the phone down and leaned back against her pillows, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time in a long while, her thoughts didn't spiral forward into catastrophe or backward into regret.
They stayed right where she was.
Khairul
At home, Khairul stood by his window, city lights spread beneath him like a constellation.
Calm didn't fool him.
Calm was a phase, not a guarantee.
He had seen what obsession did when it was left to fester. He knew how resentment fermented quietly before it turned volatile. But he also knew this: Hidayah was stronger now. Supported. Seen.
And he was not passing through her life.
He intended to stay.
Sunday Night
Hidayah prepared her bag for the week ahead, checking off a mental list.
Notebook.
Charger.
Water bottle.
Her movements were unhurried, deliberate without being tense.
Before bed, she paused by the window, looking out at the familiar quiet of her neighbourhood.
Somewhere deep in her chest, something stirred — not fear, exactly. More like awareness.
The calm was real.
But it wasn't permanent.
She didn't dread that.
She simply acknowledged it.
And when she lay down to sleep, her phone rested easily beside her — not as a lifeline, but as a connection she trusted.
The quiet held.
For now.