Thursday arrived without ceremony.
Hidayah woke before her alarm, the faint grey of morning pressing through the curtains in a way that felt more like awareness than light. Her body registered the day before her mind fully surfaced — Thursday meant silat, meant staying later, meant the familiar ache that would settle into her muscles by nightfall. It meant her father would fetch her after training. It meant routine.
The knowledge steadied her even as she stretched, joints loosening with practiced ease. She rolled onto her side, listening to the house breathe — the soft clink of a spoon against a bowl, the muted sound of a cupboard opening and closing. Morning moved forward without urgency, without tension.
She stayed still for a moment longer than necessary, checking herself the way she'd learned to do quietly.
No dread.
No spike of anxiety.
Just readiness.
She got up.
Her movements were economical, unhurried. Shower. Prayer. Clothes chosen without second-guessing — long jeans, dark T-shirt, hair tied back cleanly, no loose strands to fuss with later. Nothing ornamental. Nothing careless. When she stepped into the kitchen, the smell of reheated rice and fried eggs filled the space, warm and grounding.
Her mother glanced up from the stove. "You'll be late today."
"Silat," Hidayah replied, reaching for a glass.
Her father folded his newspaper slightly, the motion unremarkable but intentional. "I'll fetch you."
It wasn't a discussion. It didn't need to be.
"Okay," she said — and meant more than agreement.
It meant acknowledgment. Continuity. Trust.
She ate quietly, listening to the rhythm of her parents' conversation, the familiar cadence of a household that knew its own patterns. When she left, her mother reminded her to bring a jacket. Her father told her to message when training ended.
All normal.
And that, somehow, mattered.
—————
Campus felt alive in the way it always did midweek — voices overlapping, footsteps echoing through covered walkways, laughter bouncing between buildings like something loosely held. Hidayah moved with her classmates easily, participating when needed, listening more than she spoke. She didn't shrink herself. She didn't brace.
But awareness lived quietly under her skin now.
Not sharp. Not frantic. Just… present.
She noticed exits without counting them. Chose paths with visibility without calling it strategy. She positioned herself instinctively — never boxed in, never isolated — the way one adjusted posture without thinking.
Calibration, not fear.
Second lives did that to a person.
She took notes in class, answered when called on, exchanged comments with classmates without forcing brightness. Once or twice, she caught herself listening for footsteps that weren't there — and let the habit pass without reprimand.
Once — only once — she felt it.
That sensation of being noticed without engagement, like pressure against the back of her shoulders. Not a gaze she could trace. Not proximity she could measure. Just a subtle wrongness, like air thickening for no visible reason.
Her body registered it before her mind did.
She didn't stop walking.
Didn't turn.
She lengthened her stride slightly instead, letting the movement look natural. Regulated her breath the way Coach Azrul drilled into them. In through the nose. Out slow. Grounded. Balanced.
The sensation thinned.
Then disappeared.
At lunch, she ate with classmates, conversations drifting between assignments and weekend plans. Someone mentioned a new café near Woodlands. Another joked about deadlines creeping closer. Hidayah laughed when it was natural, nodded when it wasn't, present without forcing herself to perform ease.
Between bites, she sent a message.
Hidayah:
Finished class. Heading to training later.
The reply came quickly.
Khairul:
Noted. I'll be around if you need me.
She didn't reread it.
Didn't overthink it.
The reassurance wasn't in the words — it was in the predictability.
—————
By late afternoon, the sports hall buzzed with movement and sound.
Thursday silat sessions always drew a bigger crowd — more bodies on the mat, more voices echoing, more energy coiled tightly in the air. The space smelled faintly of sweat and disinfectant, the floor cool beneath bare feet. Hidayah slipped her shoes off by the wall and joined her teammates without hesitation.
"Eh, Hidayah," one of the girls called, grinning. "You look calmer today."
Hidayah blinked, surprised. "That obvious?"
"A bit," another chimed in. "Last week you were sparring like you wanted to fight the floor."
That earned a ripple of laughter.
"Hey," Hidayah said lightly, rolling her shoulders, "the floor started it."
Coach Azrul clapped his hands once — sharp, commanding. "Warm-up. Properly."
They fell into motion. Stretching. Rolling shoulders. Opening hips. The familiar burn settled into her muscles as they worked through the sequence. Hidayah let her mind loosen as her body took over, letting movement absorb the noise that usually crowded her thoughts.
As drills began, the world narrowed to foot placement, balance, breath.
Coach Azrul paired her with two others at once.
"Control," he reminded. "Not speed."
Hidayah nodded, centering herself.
She flowed through the exchange — block, pivot, redirect. One partner feinted while the other pressed in. She adjusted instinctively, grounding her weight, redirecting momentum instead of meeting force with force. When she slipped between them cleanly, redirecting both without breaking rhythm, one of them laughed in surprise.
"Okay, okay," the girl said, hands raised. "We get it."
"Don't flatter me," Hidayah replied, smiling despite herself, pulse steady.
During a water break, they sat in a loose circle, backs against the wall, steam rising faintly from their skin.
"You joining the open spar next month?" someone asked.
"Thinking about it," Hidayah said honestly.
"You should," another added. "You're sharper lately."
Sharper.
The word lingered longer than it should have.
She hadn't felt sharper. She'd felt… aligned.
————
As the session wound down, sweat dampening her shirt, muscles humming with clean exhaustion, Hidayah felt grounded in a way that had nothing to do with vigilance. Here — surrounded by people who knew her movements, her limits, her strengths — she didn't feel watched.
She felt held.
Outside the sports hall, evening settled in cool and dim, the sky bruised with the last light of day. Teammates lingered, talking about food, about plans, about nothing important at all.
"You coming for supper next week?" one asked.
"Probably," Hidayah said. "Depends on training."
She stepped aside to check her phone.
A missed call from her father.
She called back immediately.
"I'm done in about forty-five," she said.
"I'm nearby already," he replied. "Take your time."
"Okay."
She hesitated, then added, "Thanks."
"You don't need to thank me," he said calmly. "This is normal."
The word settled differently this time.
Normal didn't mean careless.
Normal meant supported.
—————
Walking toward the car park later, bag slung over one shoulder, the night settling fully around her, she felt it again.
That subtle wrongness.
Not close.
Not immediate.
Just… present.
Her steps didn't falter.
She unlocked her phone instead.
Hidayah: Heading out now. Dad's here.
The response came almost instantly.
Khairul:Good. Stay where it's bright. Call if anything changes.
Her father's car waited at the edge of the lot, headlights warm against the dark. The moment she opened the door and got in, the pressure receded — like static grounding out.
As they drove off, she glanced once in the side mirror.
Someone stood near the walkway.
Still.
Not following.
Not leaving.
She turned forward again.
—————
Later that night, clean and sore in the good way, Hidayah lay on her bed, phone tucked against her ear, ceiling fan humming softly above.
"Training went well," she told Khairul.
"I could hear it in your voice," he said. "You sound steady."
"I am," she replied. "I felt him again. Didn't see. Just… felt."
Khairul was quiet for a beat — not hesitant, just precise.
"Awareness isn't weakness," he said. "It's skill. And you're using it correctly."
She let that settle before answering.
"I know."
And this time, she believed it — not because someone told her to, but because her body had already decided.
When the call ended, she stared at the ceiling, muscles aching, breath slow, mind clear.
Thursday had been ordinary.
Reinforced.
And for now —
that was enough.