Monday mornings no longer arrived like a threat.
Hidayah noticed it the moment she stepped out of the house, the air still cool against her skin, her bag resting comfortably against her back. The weight was familiar—laptop, notebook, water bottle, the quiet certainty that she had packed everything she needed without checking twice.
She wasn't bracing herself.
That absence of tension felt almost strange.
Jasmine was already waiting at the bus stop, leaning against the railing, earphones half-on, half-off. She looked up when Hidayah approached and smiled easily, the way she always did when the day hadn't yet had a chance to wear her down.
"You're early," Jasmine said.
"Couldn't sleep past six," Hidayah replied. "Body clock."
"Traitor," Jasmine muttered, pushing off the railing. "I only woke up because my alarm threatened me."
They boarded the bus together, settling into the same pair of seats they'd occupied for years now. The bus rumbled to life, carrying them toward campus through streets that had long since lost their novelty.
It was quiet. Comfortable.
Hidayah gazed out the window, watching the familiar shops blur past, and thought—briefly—about how different mornings used to feel.
Before, every commute had been an exercise in vigilance. Her shoulders tight, her eyes scanning reflections in glass panels, her breath shallow without her realising it.
Now, her body sat loose in the seat.
That didn't mean she was careless.
It meant she trusted herself again.
—————
Monday: The Stillness Before Movement
Her Monday academic day passed without incident. She listened, participated when needed, took notes efficiently. Her mind didn't drift the way it used to when unease sat beneath everything.
During lunch, she and Jasmine sat side by side under a shaded walkway, trays between them.
"You're quieter today," Jasmine noted, nudging her with her elbow.
"Just… thinking," Hidayah said. "Feels like things are finally slowing down."
Jasmine hummed. "Careful. The universe hears statements like that and takes it as a challenge."
Hidayah laughed softly. "Let it try."
Still, later that evening, as she packed her bag for Wednesday training, she felt the familiar anticipation bloom in her chest.
Silat day.
Wednesday — Silat
The sports hall smelled the same as it always had.
Rubber mats. Sweat. Disinfectant that never quite masked the human presence soaked into the floor over years of training.
Hidayah tied her hair back, fingers quick and practiced, her body already shifting gears the moment she stepped inside. This space demanded a different version of her—one that lived in muscle memory and instinct.
Coach Azrul's voice cut through the ambient chatter.
"Warm up properly. I don't want sloppy joints today."
Hidayah dropped into motion without hesitation.
She started with joint rotations—ankles, knees, hips—feeling for resistance, for stiffness. Her body answered smoothly. Then came the footwork drills.
Step. Pivot. Sink.
Her bare feet slid across the mat in controlled arcs, weight distributed evenly, knees soft. Javanese pencak silat favoured grounded movement—rooted, deliberate, economical.
She inhaled through her nose, exhaled slowly, letting rhythm guide her.
When Coach Azrul clapped his hands, the hall shifted into pairs.
"Flow drills," he called. "One attacker, one defender. No power yet. Precision."
Hidayah faced a teammate she'd trained with for years. No words were exchanged; they didn't need them.
The first strike came slow—an open-handed strike aimed at her shoulder.
Hidayah shifted her weight back, torso twisting just enough to let the strike pass, her left arm guiding it away while her right foot slid forward into position. She countered with a low sweep—not to knock him down, just to test balance.
Again.
The pace increased.
Attacks came from different angles now—midline punches, shoulder checks, simulated grabs. Hidayah responded with economy, her movements clean, her breath steady.
When Coach Azrul called for escalation, the hall grew sharper.
"Add pressure. Don't rush. Feel the opening."
Her partner lunged faster this time, grip closing around her wrist.
Hidayah reacted instantly.
She rotated her arm inward, elbow tucking close to her ribs to break the grip, stepping diagonally to off-balance him. Her free hand pressed into his shoulder while her hip turned, redirecting his momentum.
Controlled. Precise.
Her heart rate climbed, sweat beading at her temples, but her mind stayed calm.
This was where she felt most herself.
They rotated partners.
Then again.
At one point, Coach Azrul changed the drill.
"Two attackers. One defender. Thirty seconds."
The mat cleared around her.
Two teammates stepped in, circling slowly.
Hidayah lowered her stance, feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent. Her eyes tracked both simultaneously—not darting, not frantic. Peripheral awareness engaged.
The first attack came from her left—a feint punch.
She ignored it.
The real strike came from the right.
She pivoted, forearm intercepting, body sliding inside the attacker's range. A sharp elbow check halted him while she spun away, resetting before the second attacker could close in.
Again.
Her breath deepened. Muscles burned. Focus sharpened.
When the whistle blew, she straightened slowly, chest rising and falling, sweat dripping down her spine.
Coach Azrul nodded once.
"Good control. Don't lose that."
She bowed slightly in acknowledgment.
By the time training ended, her limbs trembled with fatigue—but it was the good kind. The kind that meant she had earned the exhaustion.
She showered quickly, changed, and stepped outside to wait.
Jasmine arrived later, hair damp from the long walk from W1 to the Sports Hall, eyes bright despite the tiredness.
Arnold followed not long after, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
"You look destroyed," Jasmine said fondly, eyeing Hidayah.
"Productively destroyed," Hidayah replied.
They walked out together, conversation easy. Jasmine talked animatedly about choir harmonies; Arnold listened with half-amused patience.
Hidayah stayed mostly quiet, content to let their voices wash over her.
Her body still hummed with residual energy from training.
Thursday — Silat Again
Thursday training was different.
Heavier.
Coach Azrul focused on endurance and response.
"Today we push," he said. "You're not allowed to disengage unless you earn it."
They ran laps first—fast, punishing circuits around the hall. Hidayah's lungs burned, calves screaming as sweat soaked into her shirt.
Then came pad work.
She struck until her shoulders ached—palms, elbows, knees—each movement precise, no wasted motion.
When sparring began, it was relentless.
She faced rotating opponents without pause. One would disengage, another stepping in immediately.
Her awareness narrowed. The world reduced to breath, impact, movement.
A grab from behind.
She dropped her weight, stomped back, twisted free.
A strike aimed at her ribs.
She absorbed it partially, redirected, countered low.
By the end, her arms shook.
But she was smiling.
Friday — Archery
Friday afternoons belonged to archery.
The range was quiet when Hidayah arrived, the tension here different from silat—more internal, more meditative.
She assembled her bow with care, fingers checking each component.
When she stepped onto the line, the world narrowed again—but differently.
She planted her feet.
Raised the bow.
Drew.
Her back engaged, shoulder blades sliding together, tension distributing evenly across muscle and bone. The string rested against her anchor point - consistent, familiar.
She exhaled.
Released.
The arrow flew clean.
She repeated the process again and again, each shot an exercise in control.
Arnold joined her midway, nodding in greeting.
"You're grouping tighter," he observed.
"Been working on my release," she replied.
They practiced together, occasionally offering quiet feedback, no unnecessary words.
When Jasmine arrived after choir, archery was already winding down. She waved as she approached, sitting nearby to watch.
"You look very cool right now," Jasmine announced.
Hidayah snorted. "I'm sweating."
"Still cool."
They packed up together as the sun dipped lower.
Hidayah sent messages to her father and Khairul, updating them on dinner plans.
Her phone buzzed a moment later.
Khairul: Let me know where you end up.
She smiled.
—————
That night, lying in bed, muscles aching pleasantly, Hidayah stared at the ceiling and listened to the quiet hum of the house.
Her body remembered how to fight.
How to stand.
How to rest.
And for now, that was enough.