The suitcase looked bigger than she remembered.
Hidayah stood in the middle of her room, hands on her hips, staring at it like it might grow teeth and bite her if she got too close. It sat open on the floor, half-packed, clothes folded neatly on one side, the other side still empty—waiting.
Beijing.
She said the word silently, testing it again.
It still felt unreal.
"You're overthinking," her mother said from the doorway, amused. "You've packed like you're going away forever."
Hidayah glanced back. "I'm going for months."
"Yes, months," her mother emphasised. "Not a lifetime. You can buy clothes there, you know."
"I know," Hidayah said, laughing softly. "But what if—"
Her mother raised an eyebrow.
Hidayah stopped herself, lips pressing together.
"What if what?" her mother asked gently.
"…what if I forget something important?"
Her mother stepped into the room and crouched beside the suitcase, adjusting a folded shirt that didn't really need adjusting.
"You won't," she said calmly. "And even if you do, you'll handle it."
Hidayah watched her mother's hands—steady, sure. That same quiet confidence that had held the household together during the months when Hidayah herself had been anything but steady.
"You've grown," her mother added, not looking up. "I see it."
Hidayah swallowed.
—————
Khairul insisted on helping her "prepare," which mostly meant turning preparation into something that felt less like leaving and more like moving forward.
They met that afternoon at a café near her place, the kind with wide windows and too many power sockets. Hidayah arrived with a notebook, a printed checklist from the school, and a mild sense of chaos.
Khairul arrived with coffee and an infuriatingly calm expression.
"You look like you're about to plan a military operation," he said, sliding into the seat opposite her.
"I kind of am," she replied. "International internship. New country. New expectations."
"And yet," he said lightly, "you look… excited."
She paused, then smiled. "I am."
That felt good to admit.
They went through her checklist together—documents, visa copies, emergency contacts, insurance. Khairul asked practical questions, the kind that showed he wasn't trying to control anything, just understand the shape of her days once she was gone.
"Do you know where you'll be staying?"
"Yes."
"Commute time?"
"About forty minutes."
"Good food nearby?"
She grinned. "It's Beijing. I think I'll survive."
At one point, she looked up and realised she was talking with her hands, animated, alive in a way she hadn't been in a long time.
Khairul watched her quietly.
"What?" she asked.
"You're glowing," he said simply.
She felt warmth rise to her cheeks. "You're biased."
"Absolutely," he agreed without hesitation.
They shared a smile that lingered.
—————
The relationship had shifted subtly over the past weeks.
Not louder.
Deeper.
There were no grand declarations, no dramatic moments of "what are we?" Instead, there was consistency—messages every morning, calls when the day felt too long, Khairul checking in without hovering, listening without trying to fix everything.
He never made her feel like she owed him closeness.
And yet, he was always there.
That afternoon, as they walked back toward her place, Khairul slowed his steps to match hers.
"You're not worried about us?" he asked casually.
Hidayah considered the question.
"I think… I would be, if this was uncertain," she said slowly. "But it's not."
He nodded. "That's how I feel too."
They stopped at the lift lobby. The silence between them was comfortable, weighted but not heavy.
"I'm not going anywhere," Khairul added. "Even if you're far."
She met his gaze. "I know."
And she did.
—————
The night before her flight felt oddly peaceful.
Her suitcase was finally zipped shut. Documents were neatly arranged in a folder. Her room looked temporarily emptied, like it was holding its breath.
They had dinner together as a family—nothing fancy, just food she'd grown up with. Her father asked practical questions about flight timing. Her mother reminded her—again—to eat properly.
Later, Hidayah sat on her bed and scrolled through old photos on her phone.
Training days. Archery sessions. Laughing selfies with Jasmine. Quiet moments she hadn't realised she'd been collecting.
She sent Khairul a photo of her packed suitcase.
Hidayah: It's actually happening.
Khairul: I know. I'll see you tomorrow.
Her heart skipped.
Hidayah: At the airport?
Khairul: Wouldn't miss it.
She set the phone down and lay back, staring at the ceiling.
For once, the future didn't feel like a threat.
It felt like an invitation.
Changi Airport buzzed with life.
Hidayah stood beside her parents near the departure gates, passport clutched in hand, the weight of what was happening finally settling in her chest. Around them, families hugged, laughed, cried—departures layered with emotion.
Her mother adjusted the strap of Hidayah's bag for the third time.
"Mak," Hidayah laughed gently. "It's fine."
"I know," her mother said. "Let me."
Her father stood slightly apart, hands in his pockets, watching quietly.
Then—
"Hidayah."
She turned.
Khairul was weaving through the crowd, dressed simply, hair slightly tousled like he'd rushed. He slowed when he reached them, nodding respectfully to her parents.
"Uncle. Aunty."
Her father smiled. "You made it."
"Of course," Khairul said.
Hidayah felt something lift inside her.
They stepped aside slightly, giving the three of them space.
"You ready?" Khairul asked.
She nodded. "As ready as I'll ever be."
They stood facing each other, the noise of the airport fading into background hum.
"This isn't goodbye," he said quietly.
"I know," she replied.
"But it's still… something," he added.
She smiled, eyes bright. "A pause."
"A chosen one," he agreed.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Khairul opened his arms.
Hidayah stepped into them without hesitation.
The hug was warm, grounding—not desperate, not clinging. Just there. She rested her forehead briefly against his shoulder, breathing him in, letting herself feel it.
"I'll see you soon," she said softly.
"Take everything you are with you," he replied. "And come back with more."
She laughed, pulling back slightly. "That sounds like a challenge."
"It is."
They shared one last smile before she turned back to her parents.
As they walked toward the departure gate, Hidayah glanced back once.
Khairul was still standing there, hands in his pockets, watching her with that same steady presence she had come to trust.
She lifted a hand.
He lifted his in return.
And for the first time, distance didn't feel like loss.
It felt like a promise.