Michael learned quickly that coincidence required discipline.
Too often, and it became suspicious.
Too rare, and it lost momentum.
The trick was rhythm.
———-
The second encounter was not planned the way the first one had been.
That mattered.
The first had been intention.
The second needed to feel like inevitability.
Michael adjusted his schedule—not dramatically, just enough. He arrived earlier, lingered longer, and chose routes that overlapped without intersecting directly.
He didn't look for her constantly.
He let her come into view.
That was how normal people existed in shared spaces.
And when he saw her again—three days later, crossing the open walkway near the food court—he didn't approach.
He didn't call her name.
He simply… stayed.
He checked his phone. Shifted his weight. Took a step aside when someone passed between them.
She noticed.
He saw it in the way her shoulders tensed, just slightly.
Good.
Awareness meant connection.
———-
Hidayah
She saw him before she wanted to.
Not because he was obvious—but because her instincts had already started scanning.
Michael stood near the edge of the walkway, half-turned away, posture relaxed. He wasn't looking at her.
Which somehow made it worse.
Her pace faltered for half a second.
Coincidence, she told herself.
This was campus. People crossed paths.
But—
The timing was too close to the last encounter.
Not identical. Just… adjacent.
She walked past him without stopping.
He didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Didn't even glance at her.
Her chest stayed tight until she turned the corner.
——-
Michael
He smiled only after she disappeared from view.
That reaction—that fractional hesitation—confirmed what he already suspected.
She was anticipating him now.
Anticipation created pattern recognition.
Pattern recognition created meaning.
And meaning—given enough time—rewrote narrative.
He didn't follow.
He never followed.
That wasn't the point.
———-
By the end of the week, he had refined it further.
Sometimes he appeared at a distance.
Sometimes closer.
Sometimes not at all.
The unpredictability wasn't accidental.
It kept her from deciding whether his presence was deliberate.
He watched her responses carefully.
She never confronted him.
Never asked him to stop.
Never reported him again.
That silence mattered.
Silence, to Michael, was permission not yet withdrawn.
———
Hidayah
She began adjusting her routines.
Not drastically.
Just… subtly.
She stayed with people longer. Took slightly different paths. Checked reflections more often.
Nothing she could point to.
Nothing she could justify reporting.
And that frustrated her more than fear would have.
Because fear came with certainty.
This came with doubt.
She told herself she was overthinking.
That if something were truly wrong, she would know.
But at night, when she lay awake, the pattern replayed anyway.
Once was a coincidence.
Twice was uncomfortable.
Three times— Three times started to feel intentional.
———
Michael
He tested the next boundary carefully.
Proximity.
One afternoon, he positioned himself closer than before—near enough that if she passed, they would be within arm's reach.
He didn't block her path.
Didn't step into her space.
He simply occupied it.
She approached, slowed, hesitated.
Her gaze flicked up—met his for less than a second—then slid away.
She passed him.
Close enough that he caught the faint scent of her shampoo.
Close enough that she stiffened.
Still—
She passed.
Michael's pulse steadied.
That was the line.
She tolerated proximity.
——-
Hidayah
Her hands were shaking by the time she reached the stairs. She hated that most of all.
Not fear.
Not anger.
The loss of control.
He hadn't touched her.
Hadn't spoken.
Hadn't done anything she could point to or even emphasised on.
And yet her body reacted as if something had.
She stopped halfway up the stairs and forced herself to breathe.
A minute.
Five minutes.
This isn't nothing, a quiet voice inside her said.
———
Michael
That night, Michael justified the escalation the same way he always did—with logic.
If she were truly afraid, she would involve authority immediately.
She hadn't.
If she wanted him gone, she would tell him directly.
She hadn't.
Her silence meant uncertainty.
Uncertainty meant possibility.
And possibility meant hope.
He told himself this gently, patiently, like a mantra.
———
Hidayah
She finally spoke about it—not fully, not clearly—but enough.
It happened casually, in conversation with Jasmine, framed as an observation rather than a confession.
"I keep running into Michael," she said, stirring her drink.
Jasmine looked up sharply. "Running into?"
"Just… around," Hidayah said. "Not talking. Just there."
Jasmine frowned. "That doesn't sound accidental."
"I know," Hidayah said quietly.
Saying it out loud changed something.
It gave the feeling a shape.
——-
Michael
He noticed the shift immediately.
She became more guarded.
More deliberate.
Her awareness sharpened.
This wasn't rejection.
This was recalibration.
Michael told himself that escalation always caused resistance before acceptance.
He just had to be patient.
——-
Hidayah
That night, she finally named it—to herself, if no one else.
This is a pattern.
Not coincidence.
Not imagination.
A sequence.
The realisation didn't bring panic.
It brought resolve.
She wasn't powerless.
She just hadn't chosen her response yet.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Khairul.
Simple. Steady. Familiar.
Will fetch you tomorrow. Same time.
Her chest loosened.
The contrast was stark.
Presence that reassured versus presence that unsettled.
For the first time, she allowed herself to think it clearly:
Something is wrong.
And that clarity, once formed, did not fade.
———
Michael
Michael stood at the edge of the walkway again the next day.
Not too close.
Not too far.
Watching her approach with measured calm.
He didn't see the shift in her eyes.
Didn't recognise resolve when it replaced confusion.
Because Michael wasn't watching her.
He was watching the version of her he believed still existed.
And that version—That version had already begun to disappear.