The countdown didn't feel real until the room started emptying.
Not all at once—just in pieces.
Hidayah folded clothes with careful precision, stacking them into neat piles that waited to be compressed into luggage later. Her desk had been cleared except for her laptop, her notebook, and the thin file that held the final copy of her industry project report.
Departure: 3 days.
She didn't circle it.
She already knew.
Beijing had become routine in a way she hadn't expected. Not home—but familiar enough that leaving felt like peeling something off her skin instead of simply walking away.
She closed her laptop and stretched, glancing at the clock.
Evening.
She was halfway to the kitchen when the knock came.
She paused.
Nobody knocked this late.
Her first thought was her supervisor—then she dismissed it. Too informal. Too quiet.
The second knock came, steady and deliberate.
Hidayah walked to the door, heart ticking faster for reasons she couldn't explain, and opened it.
Khairul stood there.
For a second, her brain refused to process the image.
Dark jacket. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Familiar eyes, a little tired from travel, undeniably real.
She stared.
He watched her quietly, not smiling yet, as if giving her time to catch up.
"…You're not supposed to be here," she finally said.
"I know."
Her breath hitched.
"You didn't say anything."
"I wanted to surprise you."
That did it.
She stepped forward without thinking, hands curling into his jacket as she pressed her forehead briefly against his chest. The solid warmth of him anchored her in a way nothing else had managed to these past months.
"You flew here," she said, voice muffled. "You actually flew here."
His arms came around her slowly, firmly—not rushed, not possessive. Just there.
"Two nights early," he said. "Same return flight."
She pulled back, eyes shining, searching his face as if she needed visual proof.
"You're serious."
"I wouldn't come all this way if I wasn't."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Hidayah laughed softly, the sound half-disbelief, half-relief, and leaned into him again—this time without urgency, without fear.
For the first time since the countdown began, the leaving didn't feel like a loss.
It felt like being met halfway.
Inside her apartment, everything felt suddenly smaller.
Khairul set his bag down by the door, eyes moving over the space with quiet attention—the neatly packed corners, the half-empty shelves, the way the room already felt like it was loosening its hold on her. Evidence of a life in transition.
"You're ready," he observed, voice low.
"Almost," she replied.
He nodded once. "Good."
They stood there for a moment, suspended in the soft hum of the apartment. No urgency. No awkwardness. Just the shared understanding that this was a pause worth inhabiting.
Finally, she spoke. "Why didn't you tell me?"
He turned to face her fully then, expression open, unguarded. "Because you've been strong this whole time," he said. "I didn't want you counting down waiting for me instead of finishing what you started."
Her chest tightened, the words settling deeper than she expected.
"And now?" she asked softly.
He didn't answer right away. He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him again, solid and certain.
"Now," he said, voice steady, "I want to be here for the ending."
She held his gaze, something quiet and resolute unfolding between them.
Not a rescue.
Not a distraction.
A choice—to witness.
—————
The next two days unfolded gently.
Not in milestones or photographs or carefully planned moments—but in the quiet spaces between them. No pressure to make memories. No sense of time slipping away. Just the soft continuity of being together.
They walked the streets she'd grown attached to, moving at an unhurried pace. She pointed out the café where she'd learned the barista's name, the corner shop that sold decent bread late at night, the stretch of pavement where she always slowed without thinking. Khairul listened, hands tucked into his pockets, committing these small details to memory—not because he needed them, but because they mattered to her.
They ate at the places she liked best. Nothing fancy. Familiar food, shared without ceremony. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn't. Silence never felt heavy—it simply existed, comfortable and unexamined.
At night, they sat together while she finalised her packing. The room was half-opened suitcases and folded clothes, the quiet hum of the city filtering in through the windows. Khairul helped without being asked—folding shirts neatly, holding things up while she decided whether they stayed or went.
"Keep it," he said once, when she hesitated over a worn sweater.
"I haven't worn it in months."
"But you always reach for it when you're tired," he replied.
She looked at him, surprised. Then smiled and placed it in the suitcase.
The evening before their return flight, they sat side by side on the floor, backs against the couch, takeaway cartons spread between them. The room was dim except for the lamp by the window, casting everything in a soft, amber glow.
"I keep thinking I'll miss this place," she said quietly, nudging noodles around with her chopsticks. "And then I feel guilty, because I want to go home."
Khairul didn't hesitate. "You're allowed to want both."
She glanced at him. "You always say things like that."
A corner of his mouth curved. "Because they're true."
She was quiet for a moment, then spoke again, voice softer. "You know… when you showed up at my door two nights ago, it felt like something settled."
He turned to look at her fully.
"Settled how?"
"Like I don't have to carry everything alone anymore," she said. "Even when I'm far away."
Something gentle shifted in his expression—not triumph, not possession. Just clarity.
"That's not temporary," he said. "I don't want to be someone who passes through your life."
Her breath caught, the words landing with a weight that felt reassuring instead of frightening.
"I want to be someone who stays."
She leaned her head against his shoulder then, the simplest of gestures—and the most honest.
Outside, the city continued as it always had.
Inside, something quietly, firmly found its place.
—————
On the morning of departure, the city felt calm.
Not the hollow quiet of something abandoned, but the settled stillness of a chapter completing itself. The streets outside her window looked exactly as they always had, yet they no longer tugged at her with the same urgency. She moved through her final routine unhurried—one last glance around the apartment, a small pause at the doorway, the door closing behind her with a soft, decisive click.
At the airport, they moved through check-in together, bags rolling side by side, steps naturally matching. There was no awkward negotiation of space, no uncertainty about pace. Just an easy rhythm that suggested this was not the first time they had done something like this—nor would it be the last. Same flight. Same destination. Same line inching forward beneath bright lights and murmuring announcements.
Hidayah glanced down at their boarding passes when the agent handed them over, eyes scanning the details. She looked up at him then, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"You planned this," she accused lightly.
"I coordinated," Khairul corrected, tone mild. "There's a difference."
She laughed under her breath, the sound soft and warm, then quieted as the reality of it settled in. The months away. The work completed. The city she was leaving behind—and the one she was returning to.
"Thank you," she said after a moment. "For coming."
He turned to her fully, expression steady. "For bringing you home?" He shook his head. "That's not a favour."
Something in her chest loosened at that.
They found seats near the gate and sat close, her shoulder brushing his arm as they waited. Eventually, without thinking, she leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. He didn't shift or comment—just adjusted slightly so she was more comfortable, an arm settling loosely around her back.
The airport hummed around them—wheels rolling, voices overlapping, departures announced—but within that movement, she felt anchored. Grounded by the quiet certainty of someone beside her who wasn't rushing ahead or holding her back.
This wasn't an ending.