Hidayah
By the time Hidayah reached campus that morning, she already knew two things.
First — nothing had happened yet.
Second — something was happening.
The distinction mattered.
Nothing had happened meant there were no confrontations, no messages, no raised voices, no footsteps too close behind her. No moment could isolate and name a threat.
Something was happening lived elsewhere.
It lived in the way her shoulders stayed slightly raised even after she cleared the gantry, as if her body had forgotten how to settle all the way down.
In the way her eyes skimmed reflections in glass panels without her consciously deciding to look — a habit so ingrained it no longer registered as vigilance.
In the way she chose seats near aisles, corners, exits. Preferably close to exits.
This wasn't panic.
Panic was loud, disorganised, breathless.
This was vigilance.
Second lives did that to a person. They rewired the body before the mind caught up, taught it to anticipate shifts before they announced themselves. You didn't feel afraid — you felt prepared.
Hidayah moved through the morning as planned. She attended her first lecture, took notes in the margin of her notebook, nodded along when a classmate made an offhand joke about deadlines creeping up again.
Outwardly, nothing was off.
Inwardly, her awareness never fully settled. It hovered just above her thoughts, alert without being intrusive — like a wire pulled just tight enough to hum.
Michael did not approach her.
That, more than anything else, unsettled her.
Because part of her had already mapped the possibility. Already rehearsed the response. Already decided how she would speak, where she would go, what she would do next.
The absence of action left her with nowhere to place that readiness.
She didn't relax.
She recalibrated again.
—————
Michael
From where Michael stood, this was restraint.
He watched her cross the concourse from a distance that would look incidental to anyone else — leaning near a bench, then a pillar, phone held loosely in his hand so it wouldn't resemble observation.
She moved smoothly. Purposefully. No hesitation in her steps.
She didn't look afraid.
That irritated him.
She didn't look confused.
That angered him.
She looked… adjusted.
As if she had reorganised her life around his absence.
As if he were the anomaly.
Michael swallowed, jaw tightening despite himself.
That wasn't how this was supposed to go.
She was supposed to feel the lack — the gap he had left. She was supposed to hesitate in familiar spaces, to pause where she used to expect him, to move differently.
Instead, she moved like someone who had already decided where he no longer fit.
That decision — made without him — scraped against something sharp inside his chest.
Not yet, he thought.
This wasn't final.
People didn't rewrite history that cleanly. They didn't excise meaning without residue. If she appeared settled, it meant she was suppressing something. Reorganising, not resolving.
He could work with that.
Michael adjusted his stance, eyes tracking her until she disappeared into a building.
Restraint wasn't passive.
Restraint was positioning.
————-
Hidayah
It happened near midday.
Not dramatic. Not aggressive.
She had just left a tutorial and was heading toward the food court when Michael crossed her path — angled just enough to be plausible, deliberate enough to register.
She recognised him instantly.
"Hidayah," he said.
She stopped.
That was intentional.
Stopping was not surrender. It was control. It meant she was choosing the terms of engagement instead of reacting to them.
She turned fully to face him, posture neutral, hands visible at her sides. Her voice, when she spoke, was calm and even.
"Michael."
The name, spoken plainly, without warmth or venom, seemed to throw him off more than silence would have.
"I just wanted to check in," he said. "You've seemed… tense lately."
The observation felt invasive not because it was inaccurate, but because it presumed access.
"I'm fine," she replied.
A pause stretched between them — short, but weighted.
"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable before," he added, tone careful, almost rehearsed. "I hope you know that."
She studied his face as he spoke.
The expression was measured. The delivery smooth. But something in the framing made her chest tighten.
Not apology.
Revision.
"I've already asked you not to approach me again," she said.
The words were simple. Factual. Unemotional.
Michael smiled faintly, as if amused by a misunderstanding.
"I'm just talking."
"I'm setting a boundary," she corrected.
The distinction mattered.
That smile faltered — not dramatically, but enough that she saw the effort it took to recover it.
She didn't wait for his response.
She stepped past him and walked away.
Her pulse stayed steady. Her breathing remained controlled. Her stride didn't change until she reached the steps outside the library.
Then her heart spiked hard enough that she had to stop and grip the railing.
Not fear.
Adrenaline.
The body's delayed response once the threat had passed.
She took a slow breath.
Then another.
And pulled out her phone.
————-
Khairul
The message came less than a minute later.
Hidayah: He spoke to me again. Public space. Calm. I shut it down. I'm going to Student Affairs.
Khairul didn't ask questions.
He didn't ask how she felt, or what exactly was said. Those could come later. Right now, presence mattered more than comfort.
He replied with two short lines.
Khairul: I'm on my way. Stay where there are people.
He was already moving by the time he sent it.
His mind shifted automatically into structure. Routes. Timings. Visibility. Who needed to know, and in what order.
Emotion would have its place later.
Now was about containment.
—————
Hidayah
Student Affairs smelled faintly of paper and disinfectant.
The familiarity grounded her more than she expected. This wasn't new territory. She knew the layout, the process, the rhythm of institutional calm.
She sat across from the officer with her notebook open — not shaking, not rushed — just precise.
Dates.
Times.
Locations.
Exact phrasing.
No speculation.
No emotion-heavy language.
Just patterns.
"I'm filing this as a continuation," she said clearly. "There was a previous report and police record. This is a recurrence."
The officer's expression shifted from routine attentiveness to focus.
"You did the right thing coming back," she said. "We'll log this formally and escalate it internally."
"Thank you," Hidayah replied.
She didn't feel relieved.
But she felt heard.
That mattered more.
When she stepped out of the office, Khairul was already there.
Not pacing.
Not looming.
Just standing where she could see him immediately.
The relief hit harder than she expected — a sudden loosening in her chest that caught her off guard.
—————-
Khairul
He didn't ask, Are you okay?
He asked, "Did you lodge it?"
"Yes."
"Good."
They fell into step beside each other as they walked out of the building, his pace matching hers without effort.
"Did he follow?" he asked.
"No."
Khairul nodded once. "That tells me something."
She glanced at him. "You keep saying that."
"Because information matters," he replied evenly. "Emotion clouds. Data clarifies."
She let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.
"I hate that this is happening again," she said quietly.
"I know," Khairul replied. "But you're not dealing with it alone this time."
They stopped near the shaded walkway where the foot traffic thinned slightly.
He turned to face her fully.
"Hidayah," he said, voice low but firm. "From this point on, we move with structure. You document. You inform. You don't engage."
"And you?" she asked.
"I stay present," he said simply. "Visible. Predictable. Not reactive."
Her throat tightened.
That steadiness — that refusal to dramatise or diminish — anchored her more than reassurance ever could.
——————
Hidayah
As they walked toward the pickup point where her father would meet her, she felt it again.
That strange sensation.
Like something circling just beyond her line of sight.
But this time, the sensation didn't hollow her out.
Khairul matched her pace without touching her. No claims. No pressure. Just constant.
And for the first time since Michael re-entered the edges of her life, something settled clearly in her mind.
This wasn't about fear anymore.
It was about boundaries being tested.
And this time —
They were being reinforced.
Together.