The police station smelled faintly of disinfectant and old air-conditioning—sterile, recycled air that never quite felt fresh no matter how often it was filtered.
Hidayah sat upright on the plastic chair, back straight, shoulders squared but not rigid. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, fingers still. Her wallet and phone lay on the table in front of her, returned after verification, aligned parallel to the table edge without her realising she'd done it. Her laptop bag was still with the school; her father had already arranged to collect it later.
She did not fidget.
She had already cried.
Now, she listened.
The Investigating Officer sat across from them, a calm, middle-aged man with greying hair at the temples and a voice that carried no judgment. His manner was measured, unhurried—someone accustomed to difficult conversations and careful not to rush them.
"Based on the statements taken," he said, eyes moving briefly to his notes, "and corroboration from witnesses and school staff, the subject initiated physical contact and displayed violent behaviour."
He looked up, meeting Hidayah's gaze—not to test her, but to include her.
"This qualifies as a potential offence under the Penal Code—voluntarily causing hurt."
Her mother inhaled softly, a sound she tried and failed to suppress. Hidayah felt her mother's arm press a little closer against her side.
Her father remained still.
"Given that this occurred on school grounds," the officer continued, "and in light of the pattern of repeated prior reports, the matter has been escalated."
He paused, then said it plainly.
"The subject has been arrested and is currently detained for further investigation."
Arrested.
The word settled into the room—not dramatic, not shocking. Just heavy with consequence.
Hidayah felt it land in her chest like gravity rather than impact. This was no longer something that could be brushed aside. It had crossed into a space where systems took over.
"Will he be released tonight?" her father asked quietly.
His voice was calm, but intent threaded through it.
"That will depend on further assessment," the officer replied. "He may be released on bail or remanded. Given the escalation and the presence of physical violence, we are taking this seriously."
There was a brief pause.
Then Hidayah's father spoke again.
"I want to ask about a Personal Protection Order."
The officer nodded immediately, as though he had been expecting the question.
"That would be appropriate to consider," he said. "Especially given the repeated unwanted contact and today's incident."
He turned slightly toward Hidayah. "A PPO is meant to protect you. It can include conditions prohibiting the subject from approaching or contacting you in any way."
Hidayah nodded once.
"I want that," she said.
Her voice was steady.
The officer acknowledged her response, then shifted into explanation—clear, procedural, careful to ensure understanding.
"You can apply through the Family Justice Courts," he said. "Given the circumstances, we can assist in facilitating an expedited application. This includes providing the police report, statements, and supporting documentation."
He slid a pamphlet across the table, then pointed to specific sections.
"There is also an option for an Expedited Order, which can be granted more quickly if there is an immediate risk. We'll guide you through the process and coordinate with the relevant departments."
Her mother reached for the pamphlet with both hands, scanning it slowly.
"So… this means he can't come near her?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," the officer replied. "Once granted, any breach of the order becomes a separate offence."
Her father nodded, jaw tightening slightly. "We want to proceed."
The officer made a note. "I'll arrange for an officer to follow up with you tomorrow regarding the application. We'll ensure you have all the documentation you need."
Hidayah felt something inside her ease—not relief exactly, but reinforcement. A line being drawn and recognised.
She was asked again if she wished to proceed with the formal charge.
"Yes," she said.
No hesitation.
No wavering.
Forms were signed. Timelines explained. Contact numbers provided. Victim support services were outlined—not as obligation, but as option.
When the last document was set aside and the pen capped, the room felt less compressed, as though the air had finally found somewhere to go.
Outside, the evening air was cooler.
Her mother wrapped an arm around her shoulders the moment they stepped out of the station, pulling her close. "You did very well," she murmured, voice trembling but proud. "You were very strong."
Hidayah leaned into her briefly, then straightened.
Her father unlocked the car and waited until everyone was seated before speaking.
"This ends here," he said quietly. "We will make sure you are protected."
Hidayah watched the city lights slide past the window as they drove home, her reflection faint in the glass—eyes tired, but clear.
Her phone vibrated once.
Khairul: I'm done with work. Are you home?
She typed after a moment.
Hidayah: On the way. Police station done.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Khairul: I'll come by. Just to check on you.
She exhaled.
Didn't argue.
—————
At home, the house felt quieter than usual.
Not empty—just subdued, as if every sound knew to lower itself.
Dinner sat mostly untouched on the table. Her mother hovered without meaning to—making tea that went cold, straightening cushions that were already aligned, asking gentle questions she didn't expect answers to. Her father spent some time in the study, voice low as he took a call, measured and controlled in a way that spoke of containment rather than calm.
Hidayah showered, changed into soft cotton clothes, and settled onto the sofa in the living room instead of her room. She sat with her knees drawn up—not folded inward, not defensive. Just… held close. Contained.
The doorbell rang at seven forty-three.
Khairul arrived without fanfare.
Plain T-shirt. Jeans. No haste in his movements. No unnecessary words.
His eyes found her immediately.
She was already seated on the sofa when he stepped into the living room. He crossed the space quietly and sat beside her without asking, close but not crowding.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then she leaned in.
Not dramatically. Not urgently. Just enough that her shoulder touched his chest.
Khairul's arm came around her instinctively—slow, sure, unassuming. He drew her in until her forehead rested against him, her weight settling as if she'd finally found a place to stop bracing.
She exhaled.
Long.
The sound carried more than breath—it carried the release of hours held together by will alone.
"I'm okay," she murmured, voice muffled. "I just… needed to stop."
"I know," he said quietly.
He didn't adjust her. Didn't rock her. Didn't speak again.
He simply stayed.
Her breathing evened out gradually, shallow tension melting into something heavier, slower. Tears slipped free without sound, dampening his shirt, but he didn't react—didn't shift, didn't acknowledge them beyond being there.
Minutes passed.
Her grip loosened.
Her head grew heavier against his chest.
Khairul felt it before he saw it—the subtle change, the way her body gave in not to sadness, but exhaustion.
She had fallen asleep.
Carefully, he lifted his gaze.
Her parents were watching from across the room—her mother with hands clasped tightly together, her father standing still near the doorway, eyes sharp but softened.
Khairul lowered his voice to a whisper.
"Uncle… may I move her to the bed?"
Kamari didn't answer immediately. He studied his daughter's face, slack with sleep, finally unguarded.
Then he nodded once. "Yes."
Her mother was already moving.
"This way," she said softly, leading them down the corridor as though sound itself could bruise the moment.
Khairul adjusted his hold slowly, sliding one arm beneath Hidayah's knees and the other behind her back. She stirred faintly, brow knitting for a second, then settled again when she recognised the steady presence.
Together, they entered her room.
The light was dim. Familiar. Safe.
Her mother pulled back the comforter while Khairul lowered Hidayah onto the bed with deliberate care, positioning her gently so her neck was supported, her limbs at ease rather than curled.
He eased his arm free only once he was certain she wouldn't wake.
Her mother tucked the comforter around her, smoothing it once over Hidayah's shoulder. She paused there longer than necessary.
"She hasn't slept properly in days," she whispered.
"I know," Khairul replied just as quietly.
They stepped back into the hallway and closed the door softly behind them.
In the living room, Kamari spoke first.
"Thank you," he said. Simple. Weighted.
Khairul inclined his head. "I'm just glad she rested."
Kamari studied him for a moment, then nodded. "You handled today well. No interference. No panic."
"That's important to her," Khairul said. "Stability."
Her mother folded her arms around herself. "She trusts you."
Khairul met her gaze evenly. "I don't take that lightly."
A brief silence followed—not awkward. Settled.
Kamari spoke again. "If anything changes—anything—you tell us."
"Yes, Uncle."
Khairul reached for his shoes.
"I'll head off," he said. "But I'm nearby."
Her mother gave a small nod. "Thank you… for staying."
At the door, Khairul glanced once more down the corridor toward Hidayah's room.
Tonight, she was sleeping.
And for now—
That was enough.