Friday carried a steadier rhythm.
Hidayah felt it before she even left the house—the way her body moved without urgency, the way her mind stayed anchored instead of skimming the edges of every sound. There was no tightness in her chest this morning, no mental checklist running ahead of her steps. Fridays meant archery. It meant space. Distance. Breath is measured not by danger, but by discipline.
She dressed with quiet intent.
Hair braided tight so it wouldn't brush her neck or slip into her peripheral vision. Sleeves fitted, flexible enough for draw and release. Shoes worn soft at the heel, already shaped to her feet. Nothing new. Nothing uncertain. Her bow case waited by the door, familiar in its scuffs and weight, a promise she had kept with herself for years.
When she lifted it onto her shoulder, the strap settling diagonally across her back, it straightened her spine instinctively. Her posture adjusted before she thought about it—calm, balanced, ready.
"Archery today?" her mother asked, setting a plate on the table.
"Yes."
"Eat properly."
"I will."
Her father looked up from his newspaper, eyes flicking briefly to the bow case. "Call me when you're done."
"I will."
This time, the words didn't feel like precaution. No hidden urgency, no unspoken warning. Just routine. Ordinary coordination between people who trusted each other to follow through.
She ate without rushing, rinsed her plate, slipped her shoes on. When she left the house, the day felt open rather than exposed.
————-
The archery range was already warm when Hidayah arrived, late afternoon sun angling low across the grass, light pooling in long, slanted bands. The space held a particular kind of quiet—not silence, but restraint. Voices stayed low. Movements were deliberate. Everyone seemed to understand, instinctively, that this was a place where noise distracted more than it connected.
Arnold was there ahead of her, adjusting the target stands with methodical patience.
"You're early," he said, glancing at his watch.
"You're slow," she replied easily, dropping her bag beside the equipment rack.
He grinned. "Fair."
Hidayah knelt to unzip her bow case. Her hands moved with muscle memory—checking the limbs for hairline cracks, running her fingers along the riser where the wood had smoothed under years of use. She strung the bow with practiced care, listening for the subtle tension that told her everything was aligned properly.
A few juniors hovered nearby, pretending to stretch while absolutely watching her.
She caught one girl's eye and smiled. "Come," Hidayah said gently. "Show me your grip."
They stepped aside together. Hidayah adjusted the junior's fingers with light precision, careful not to overcorrect.
"Don't choke the bow," she said. "Let it rest. You guide it—you don't control it."
The girl nodded, shoulders loosening as if she'd been holding tension she hadn't realised was there.
Practice began.
The range is filled with the soft thrum of strings, arrows slicing clean arcs through the air before striking target faces with muted, satisfying impact. The sound was rhythmic, almost meditative. Hidayah took her place on the line.
Feet planted.
Spine tall.
Shoulders relaxed.
She nocked an arrow, the click familiar and reassuring. Drew smoothly, back muscles engaging as her breath slowed. Her anchor point settled firmly against her jaw, consistent as ever. The world narrowed—not from fear, but from focus.
Release.
The arrow flew true, landing cleanly in gold. Not centre, but close enough that she exhaled slowly, content.
Arnold glanced over. "Still consistent."
"Always," she said, already resetting.
Between ends, she moved along the line, offering quiet corrections.
"Elbow a little higher."
"Relax your shoulders."
"Let the release surprise you."
One junior rushed her shot, the arrow skimming wide.
Hidayah crouched beside her. "What happened?"
"I panicked."
"That's okay," Hidayah said softly. "Then we slow it down."
She demonstrated deliberately—step by step.
Grip.
Draw.
Anchor.
Breathe.
"Control isn't force," she said. "It's trust."
The next arrow landed firmly in the blue.
The junior's face lit up, disbelief turning into pride.
As the session continued, the sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long across the grass. The air cooled, carrying the faint smell of earth and cut leaves. The range began to feel like the end of something rather than the middle—a clean closing.
"All right," Arnold called after the last end. "Pack up."
Hidayah lowered her bow, shoulders pleasantly sore, mind quiet in that deep, earned way that only came after full engagement. No buzzing thoughts. No residue of vigilance.
They were stowing equipment when footsteps approached from the path.
Jasmine appeared, choir bag slung over one shoulder, hair slightly damp at the temples from the walk, eyes bright despite the long day.
"Done already?" she asked, catching her breath.
"Just finished," Hidayah said, smiling. "You're right on time."
"Good," Jasmine said. "Because I'm starving."
Arnold laughed. "Causeway Point?"
"Obviously," Jasmine replied.
As they started walking away from the range, Hidayah pulled out her phone.
She messaged her father first.
Hidayah: Done with archery. Going to Causeway Point for dinner with Arnold & Jasmine.
Then, after a brief pause—just long enough to check in with herself—she sent another.
Hidayah: We're heading to Causeway Point for dinner. You're welcome to join if you want.
The reply came quickly.
Khairul: I can meet you there. If you're okay with that.
Her lips curved into a small, genuine smile—no tension behind it, no calculation.
Hidayah: I am.
Jasmine leaned closer, peering at the screen. "Is that Khairul?"
"Yes."
"Great!," Jasmine said decisively. "More food. Better company."
Arnold shook his head. "I see how this works now."
They walked together toward the exit, the archery range fading behind them. Hidayah adjusted the strap of her bow case on her shoulder, body tired in a good way, muscles warm, breath even.
For once, her awareness didn't feel sharpened for impact.
Just anchored.