Beijing announced itself before it welcomed her.
The airport was larger than she expected, louder too—layers of language, rolling luggage, announcements she didn't yet understand but somehow followed anyway. Hidayah moved through it with her documents clutched close, shoulders squared, heart steady.
She had learned how to do this.
Not fearlessly.
But prepared.
Her accommodation sat a short walk from a main road, tucked between convenience stores and small eateries that spilled light onto the pavement at night. The room itself was modest—clean lines, neutral walls, a desk by the window. The city stretched beyond it, tall and endless.
On her first night, she stood by the window and watched traffic move like a living thing.
Beijing didn't intimidate her.
It simply waited.
—————
By the end of the first week, her body learned the rhythm before her mind did.
Four workdays.
One academic day.
Two off-days that weren't quite rest, but weren't work either.
Monday came fast.
Her internship site was structured, efficient, and quietly demanding. Mornings began early—commutes timed carefully, outfits chosen the night before. She learned the names of colleagues, observed more than she spoke, and wrote notes constantly.
The work itself was real. Not theoretical. Not simulated.
She liked that.
By Thursday, her legs ached in a way that told her she was using them well.
Friday felt lighter, even though it was still work. The anticipation of the weekend softened the edges of the day.
Wednesday, though—that belonged to something else entirely.
—————
Academic day.
She treated Wednesdays differently.
She woke slightly later, brewed tea instead of rushing out with takeaway coffee, and sat at the desk by the window with her laptop open and her notebook beside it.
Reports.
Reflection.
Integration.
She wrote about what she observed—workflow, hierarchy, cultural nuance. She documented mistakes she made, corrections she received, adjustments she learned to make without being told.
But the hardest part wasn't describing what she did.
It was answering why it mattered.
How did this experience shape her understanding of the industry?
What skills was she developing that she couldn't learn in a classroom?
How would this change how she worked after graduation?
She took her time.
There was also the industry project—ongoing, structured, requiring clarity. It wasn't enough to propose an idea. It had to be viable. Relevant. Endorsed by her supervisor.
She scheduled meetings carefully, drafted outlines, revised them, learned how to accept critique without shrinking.
Wednesdays ended with her eyes tired but her mind sharp.
She liked the feeling.
—————
Sundays became her anchor.
Her off-day.
The city slowed just enough for her to breathe.
She grocery-shopped in the morning, learning where things were, which brands tasted closest to home, which she liked better than expected. Afternoons were for laundry, reading, light exercise.
Evenings were reserved.
Skype rang at the same time every Sunday.
Her parents appeared on screen first—her mother always adjusting the camera, her father already seated, newspaper folded beside him even though he never read during the call.
"Have you eaten?" her mother asked, as if distance erased time zones but not worry.
"Yes, Mak," Hidayah said patiently. "I eat properly."
They talked about small things. Weather. Food. Her workdays. Who she'd met. Her mother showed her something new in the kitchen; her father asked about transport and safety.
The call never lasted too long.
But it never felt rushed.
Afterwards, she stayed online.
Khairul usually called later in the evening—Beijing night, Singapore late afternoon or evening depending on his shift.
Sometimes it was just audio.
Sometimes video.
Sometimes he called from his car, background humming softly. Other times he was at home, posture relaxed, listening more than he spoke.
"How was today?" he asked, almost every time.
And she answered honestly.
They didn't talk constantly.
They talked consistently.
On workdays, messages were short. Updates. Check-ins.
Khairul: Home safe?
Hidayah: Yes. Tired but okay.
Khairul: Eat something warm.
Sometimes she video-called him on her off-day while he was at work—just his face framed against a neutral background, her voice soft so she didn't interrupt anything important.
Other times, they spoke while she sat on her bed, legs tucked under her, city lights blinking behind her.
They didn't fill the silence.
They let it exist.
And somehow, that made the distance manageable.
—————
Weeks passed.
Her routine solidified.
She learned which bus to avoid during peak hours. Which café near her internship site served coffee closest to what she liked. Which evenings she needed to sleep early and which she could stay up a little later, writing or reading or simply thinking.
She stopped counting days.
She started counting progress.
One Wednesday, as she reviewed her industry project draft, she realised she was no longer second-guessing every sentence. She trusted her judgment more. Trusted that learning didn't require certainty—just engagement.
That night, she called Khairul.
"I think I'm… doing okay," she said, surprised by her own words.
"I knew you would," he replied.
"No," she corrected gently. "I feel it now."
There was a pause on the line.
"I'm proud of you," he said quietly.
She smiled, leaning back against her pillow.
—————
Beijing became less of a backdrop and more of a presence.
She walked familiar streets without checking her phone. She navigated workdays with growing confidence. She balanced independence with connection, structure with softness.
Some nights, she still missed home.
But the ache wasn't sharp.
It was human.
On one Sunday evening, after ending a call with her parents, she stayed seated for a moment, staring at her reflection in the darkened screen.
She looked… steady.
Not untouched by everything that had happened.
But not defined by it either.
She opened her window slightly, letting the cool air in.
Tomorrow was Monday.
Workday.
Routine.
And for the first time in a long while, routine didn't feel like survival.
It felt like growth.