Tuesday arrived without ceremony.
No warning. No sense of dread curling in Hidayah's stomach when she woke. Just routine—steady, practiced, almost boring in how normal it felt. The kind of normal she had learned not to question too closely.
Her father drove her to school as usual. The car radio murmured softly, the same news segment replaying traffic updates she no longer listened to. She checked her phone once, replied briefly to Khairul's Morning. Eat properly, then slipped it back into her pocket.
Nothing felt off.
That was the problem.
By the time she reached campus, the day had already settled into its familiar rhythm. Classes blurred into one another. Notes were taken. Laughter drifted in from the corridor during lesson transitions. She focused. She always did.
Michael did not appear.
Not in the morning rush. Not lingering near the canteen. Not hovering at the edges of her vision like he had been doing for weeks.
By late morning, she allowed herself to think—maybe today would be quiet.
Break One arrived mid-lesson.
Not an ending. Just a pause.
Students stood, stretched, shuffled out of the classroom in loose clusters. Some headed for the toilets. Others leaned against the corridor railings with snacks pulled from bags.
Hidayah remained seated for a moment longer, finishing a line in her notes before closing her laptop. She slid her phone and wallet into her pocket—habitual, automatic—and stepped into the corridor.
She made it three steps.
"Why are you doing this to me?"
The voice cut through the corridor like a blade.
Conversations stilled.
Hidayah froze—not from fear, but recognition.
Michael stood barely two metres away.
Too close.
His eyes were rimmed red, jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscle twitching beneath his skin. His bag hung crookedly from one shoulder, knuckles white around the strap.
Students around them slowed. Heads turned.
She felt the attention snap toward them all at once.
"Michael," she said, calm, firm. "This is not the time."
His laugh came out sharp, fractured. "That's all you ever say now."
She took one step back, angling her body sideways—not retreat, just space. Grounded stance. Weight balanced.
"Lower your voice," she said.
"Why?" he snapped, volume rising. "So you can pretend again? Like I don't exist?"
People were staring openly now.
Someone muttered her name.
"Hidayah!" Michael barked it, loud enough to echo. "You don't even look at me anymore!"
She inhaled slowly, steadying herself.
"Please step away."
"Why?" he demanded again, stepping forward instead. "You used to love me. You used to make everything in your life about me!"
The words slammed into the corridor.
A hush fell.
Hidayah felt something inside her go very still.
And then—
the memory surfaced.
Not violently.
Not all at once.
Just a thin seam splitting open in her chest.
————
Then — her past life
She was the same age as now but softer in the way people were before they learned the cost of devotion.
Michael was sitting beside her on the steps outside the lecture hall, knees drawn up, laughing at something she had said like it mattered more than it should have. The sun was warm. She remembered that clearly—how it had made the concrete hot beneath her palms.
She remembered waiting for him.
Waiting for his replies. Waiting for him to notice when she was tired. Waiting for him to choose her back with the same intensity she offered him without question.
She had rearranged herself for him—schedules bent, priorities shifted, feelings swallowed so his could sit comfortably at the centre. She had called it love because she didn't yet have another word for it.
In her memory, they were happy.
Or rather—she was.
Happy in the way people were when they believed effort would eventually be rewarded. When giving more felt like proof of worth. When silence was interpreted as depth instead of absence.
She remembered telling herself, He just doesn't know how to respond. He'll get there.
She remembered loving him enough to excuse the emptiness.
—————
The memory ended as quickly as it came.
Like a door closing gently, firmly.
She was back in the corridor.
Back in her body.
Back in the present.
And suddenly, with startling clarity, she understood the truth that memory had obscured for so long:
She had loved him.
He had not loved her back.
Not in action. Not in responsibility. Not in the way that mattered.
What he remembered as devotion was her self-erasure.
What he called love was a silence he had never bothered to fill.
The stillness inside her hardened.
"I've never been involved with you," she said clearly. "And I have asked you—repeatedly—to stop approaching me."
Michael's breathing turned uneven. His face twisted—not into anger alone, but something worse. Something unmoored.
"You're lying," he said hoarsely. "You just don't remember. You don't remember what you promised me."
She shook her head once. "Move away."
His hand shot out.
Not fast enough.
Training took over.
Hidayah pivoted, knocking his wrist aside with the heel of her palm while stepping in—not back—using his momentum against him. Her forearm pressed across his elbow joint, twisting just enough to force a yelp from his throat.
She released him immediately.
Gasps rippled through the corridor.
Michael staggered, shock flashing across his face—then rage.
"YOU HURT ME!" he shouted.
He lunged again.
This time, she didn't wait.
She dropped her centre of gravity, swept his leg with controlled precision—not enough to send him crashing—but enough to break his balance. He slammed into the wall shoulder-first instead, breath knocking out of him.
"STOP!" someone yelled.
"CALL SECURITY!"
A facilitator rushed out of a nearby classroom, eyes wide.
Michael shoved off the wall and rounded on her again, voice cracking as he screamed, "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?!"
That was when the tears came.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
They slipped free as she stood there—still, squared, hands open at her sides. Her chest burned. Her vision blurred. She didn't wipe them away at first.
She refused to fold.
"I want you to leave me alone," she said, voice steady despite the tears. "Right now."
Michael stared at her, something breaking in his expression.
Security arrived minutes later—but in those minutes, time felt thick. Stagnant. As though the air itself had decided to hold its breath.
Michael stood where he was, chest rising and falling too fast, too hard. His eyes never left Hidayah.
They weren't pleading anymore.
They were accusing.
Rage sat there naked and unfiltered, sharpened by humiliation, by witnesses, by the sudden understanding that control had slipped beyond his grasp. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles pale, shoulders tight as if he might still launch himself forward if given even half a chance.
Hidayah did not move.
She kept her feet planted, spine straight, hands open and visible at her sides. Not defensive. Not aggressive. Just ready. Her breathing was slower now—deliberate. Measured. The way it always was when she refused to be pulled under by someone else's chaos.
The corridor felt unreal. Sound dulled. Faces blurred at the edges of her vision. She was aware of the weight of eyes on her back, the hush of students who didn't dare speak, the faint ringing in her own ears.
Then footsteps—firm, purposeful.
Two security officers came into view from the far end of the corridor, moving fast, bodies angled forward with practiced urgency. The kind that came from experience, not panic.
One stepped decisively between her and Michael, broad back forming a barrier without hesitation.
"Sir," he said, voice calm but unmistakably authoritative. "Step back."
The second officer reached for Michael's arm.
Michael jerked away.
"Don't touch me!" he shouted, voice cracking as he thrashed against the grip. "She started it! She attacked me!"
Spittle flew. His words tumbled over each other, wild, uncontained.
The officer tightened his hold, unfazed. "Sir, you need to calm down."
Michael laughed—a short, broken sound that didn't reach his eyes. He twisted again, trying to break free, fury flashing as he pointed past the officer's shoulder at Hidayah.
"Look at her!" he screamed. "She thinks she's innocent! She thinks she can just erase everything!"
Hidayah met his gaze once.
Just once.
There was no hatred there.
No triumph.
Only finality.
And something in his expression faltered—just for a fraction of a second—before the officers fully restrained him and began guiding him away, his protests echoing down the corridor long after his body was gone from her line of sight.
Only then did the air begin to move again.
—————
Student Affairs
She was escorted to the Student Affairs office while security took Michael elsewhere.
The room was neutral in every way—pale walls, functional furniture, the faint hum of an air-conditioner working too hard. A staff member offered her a seat and a cup of water. She accepted both, hands steady enough to lift the cup, though she didn't drink right away.
"Just sit here for now," the woman said gently. "We'll let you know when we need you."
Hidayah nodded. She sat upright, feet flat on the floor, back against the chair. Waiting had always been something she was good at.
Her phone vibrated against her palm.
Khairul: What happened?
Her thumb hovered over the screen. For a brief moment, she considered softening it. Reframing. Then she didn't.
Hidayah: Michael confronted me outside class. It escalated. Security involved. Police called.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Khairul: Are you hurt?
She checked herself automatically—wrists, shoulders, ribs. No pain beyond the fading adrenaline buzz.
Hidayah: No. I'm safe.
She locked the screen. That was enough explanation for now.
A staff member returned a few minutes later to confirm her parents had been contacted. She thanked them, voice calm, tone even. Names were noted. Time stamps written down. Everything moved according to a process that did not ask her how she felt, only what had happened.
Her parents arrived within thirty minutes.
She heard them before she saw them—her mother's soft intake of breath, her father's measured footsteps. When her mother reached her, the hug came fast and firm, arms wrapping around her shoulders as whispered prayers spilled out instinctively, half-formed, urgent.
"Alhamdulillah," her mother murmured. "Alhamdulillah you're safe."
Hidayah rested her forehead briefly against her mother's shoulder. Just a second. Then she straightened.
Her father didn't say anything at first. He stood beside her, hand settling on her upper arm—solid, grounding. His jaw was tight, eyes sharp as they scanned the room, taking in exits, people, details.
"I'm okay," Hidayah said quietly.
He nodded once. The pressure of his hand didn't lessen.
The police arrived shortly after.
Introductions were made. Names confirmed. One officer spoke to her, another to her parents. Questions were clear, direct. Dates. Times. Exact words used. Physical actions.
Hidayah answered without hesitation.
She described the confrontation step by step. The distance. The words. The moment his hand moved. Her response. She did not raise her voice. She did not dramatise. She did not apologise.
She stuck to facts.
The officers took notes, asked for clarification, nodded. A facilitator confirmed they had witnessed the incident. Security reports were referenced. This was not the first complaint on record.
Michael was removed from campus pending further action.
When it was done, the room felt emptier. Quieter. As though the event had been boxed up and filed away, even though her body hadn't quite caught up yet.
She sent one more message.
Hidayah: I'm going home with my parents. Something happened. I'll explain later.
Jasmine replied immediately.
Jasmine: I'm coming—
Hidayah: No. I'm okay. I promise.
She set the phone down face-up on the table and stood when her father gestured toward the door.
The shaking didn't come until later.
In the car.
The engine hummed softly as they pulled away from campus. Streetlights passed in steady intervals. Hidayah stared out the window, hands folded neatly in her lap, breath shallow but controlled.
Her mother reached across the console and took her hand, squeezing gently. Not to stop the trembling. Just to let it be shared.
"You did the right thing," her mother said quietly.
Hidayah nodded once.
She knew.