Healing, Hidayah learnt, was not dramatic.
There were no sudden moments where she woke up feeling whole again. No clean line between before and after. Recovery arrived in fragments—measured in doctor's appointments, medication schedules, careful movements, and people hovering just close enough to catch her if she faltered.
Even leaving the hospital felt like stepping into a world both familiar and unfamiliar. The city outside the ambulance window was the same she had left days before, yet each movement—the tilt of a car, the distant honk of traffic—felt sharper, more deliberate. Each shadow, each shift in light, reminded her that something in her perception had changed, even if she herself hadn't.
The hospital discharged her after several days, but the world didn't return to normal when she stepped back into her parents' flat. It slowed. The flat breathed differently around her and adjusted itself to accommodate the fragility she carried. Her room felt the same, yet subtly altered—as if the walls themselves had learnt to move more quietly, to cradle her instead of waiting for her to keep up with them.
Her mother insisted on fussing.
"Don't bend like that," she'd call from the doorway, voice careful, eyes never leaving her daughter.
"Sit properly," she reminded her, even when Hidayah had found a comfortable position.
"Let me carry that," she said, picking up a small stack of laundry without waiting for protest.
Hidayah accepted the ministrations silently, aware of the weight of gratitude she carried. Every act of care was threaded with fear—the fear her mother didn't voice aloud, but that she felt in every touch.
Her father, Kamari, didn't say much. He didn't need to. His presence was quiet, deliberate. He adjusted his routines without announcement—waking earlier, returning home sooner, listening when she moved from room to room. Sometimes, when she caught him at just the right angle, she would see his eyes resting on her, relief braided tightly with restraint, as though he were both celebrating her survival and holding back in case she faltered.
They had almost lost her.
No one said it aloud, but the truth lived in the pauses between conversations, in the small hesitations before each movement, and in the way the flat seemed to settle around her. Even the air felt heavier, deliberate.
The doctors were firm.
No silat. No archery. No physical strain beyond gentle walks.
"Your body needs time," Dr Amrit had said gently, clipboard tucked under his arm. "You're young. That works in your favour. But healing isn't a competition."
Hidayah accepted the restrictions without argument. For the first time in a long while, she didn't feel the urge to push back. There was a strange comfort in restraint, in knowing that patience itself could be a form of strength.
Recovery arrived in quiet victories.
The first time she walked to the kitchen without leaning heavily on the counter, she felt a flicker of pride. Small, almost imperceptible, but real.
The first evening she managed to slice vegetables for dinner without her hands shaking; her mother watched silently from the doorway, eyes brimming with unshed tears, and Hidayah knew she was witnessing relief more than praise.
Khairul came by in the evenings.
Not every night—he was careful about that—but often enough that his presence settled into the rhythm of the household naturally, like he had always belonged there. Sometimes he brought food. Sometimes he brought nothing at all. On quieter days, they sat in the living room while her parents watched television, their conversation low and unhurried. He never touched her wound. Never asked questions she wasn't ready to answer. When he held her hand, it was steady and grounding, not protective in a way that made her feel fragile.
She noticed the way he adjusted himself around her.
How he walked half a step slower.
How his gaze tracked exits and entrances without being obvious.
How he never left until he was certain she was settled.
One night, after her parents had gone to bed, they sat on the balcony together. The air was cool, and the sounds of Yishun were muted and familiar.
"I hate that I can't do more," he said quietly.
Hidayah leaned back against the chair, careful. "You're doing enough."
He looked at her then, really looked at her. "I just need you to know something."
She waited.
"I'm not here because I feel responsible," he said. "I'm here because this is where I choose to be."
The words settled gently, not heavy, not urgent.
She nodded. "I know."
Healing was not linear. Some mornings, she woke with a lingering tightness in her side that reminded her sharply of the attack. Some nights, she would wake imagining the corridor, the glint of the knife, the sudden darkness—but then there were days where the memory felt distant, almost manageable.
Khairul stayed consistent, a quiet anchor. He never forced her to speak about it, never urged her to relive it, but his steady presence created a rhythm she could lean on. She began to realise that safety could exist outside the hospital walls, that trust could be rebuilt gradually, quietly, and without fanfare.
Her parents' routines shifted subtly around her. Her mother made a habit of leaving little reminders on the kitchen counter: a bottle of water, her medication, and a note on the fridge with gentle encouragement. Her father woke early to make tea and sit silently nearby while she stretched or moved through her morning exercises. Their vigilance was gentle, never suffocating—calculated care, threaded with relief and fear alike.
The first few weeks at home were measured. Hidayah moved slowly, deliberately. Every stair was taken with care. Every task was approached with a cautious mindfulness. Each day, she noted small successes: a walk along the corridor without stopping. Reaching for the top shelf without wincing. Folding laundry without thinking of the wound.
Each minor triumph was private and uncelebrated, but it accumulated into something tangible—a quiet confidence that she could move again in the world.
Even her interactions with Khairul became milestones in themselves. A hand held without hesitation. A gaze shared without fear. A conversation that drifted toward mundane topics: the weather, the new book he was reading, and the flavour of tea she preferred that day. These small, ordinary moments were profound. They were proof that life could continue, gently, deliberately, despite the trauma that had nearly claimed it.
Her parents watched this quietly. Not with words, but in their pauses, the way her mother's hand lingered near hers, and the way her father's eyes followed her movements with careful attention. They had learnt that love, after something like this, was measured not in grand gestures but in subtle, constant support.
Weeks later, she began tentative exercises under Dr Amrit's guidance—gentle stretches, measured walks, and slow strengthening. Each movement reminded her of the fragility of her body and the patience it demanded. She didn't rush. She didn't argue. She allowed herself to feel the progress in small increments.
And Khairul continued to be there, quietly sharing space with her in these moments, never overbearing, never intrusive. When she faltered, he adjusted a hand on her shoulder or knee, grounding her. When she succeeded, he offered a faint smile or simply stayed still beside her, sharing the small, understated victory without comment.
Gradually, the apartment became a place of quiet stability. The city outside still held its noise, its unpredictability, but within these walls, the rhythm was hers again. She could move, breathe, and begin to reclaim the ordinary.
One evening, after a particularly long day of therapy, she leaned against Khairul on the balcony once more.
"I don't know if I'll ever feel… normal again," she said softly.
He rested his head lightly against hers. "Normal isn't the point," he said. "Surviving, healing, moving forward—that's enough. And you're doing it."
She allowed herself a small, tired smile. "I guess it is."
And in that quiet, steady presence—Khairul beside her, her parents watching from inside, the city distant below—Hidayah felt a fragment of peace. Not the dramatic kind. Not the kind that erased what had happened. But real. Solid. Achievable.
She was not whole. Not yet. Perhaps not ever in the way she remembered herself before. But she was here. She was moving forward. And for now, that was enough.
asmine came next.
The first visit was loud, emotional, a tide of words and tears that left the room almost vibrating. Jasmine's grief spilled over, dramatic and uncontained, while Hidayah's came quietly, almost imperceptibly at first, until she felt it release in a way that startled her. She had not realised how tightly she had been holding herself together until the tears came, soaking her sleeve. By the time Jasmine finally leaned back, exhausted and apologetic, both of them were quiet, letting the silence stretch between them—a soft, fragile bridge.
After that, things settled into a gentler rhythm. They began going out again, carefully, deliberately. No campus wanderings. No long walks along crowded streets. No rushing from one place to the next. Each outing was small, measured, but purposeful—a way of reclaiming the ordinary without being overwhelmed.
Northpoint became their default. Familiar, close to home, full of comforting constancy: cafés where the staff remembered their orders, quiet corners in the library where they could retreat without scrutiny, the movie theatres where the lights dimmed and the world outside ceased to exist for two hours at a time.
Arnold always walked on Hidayah's other side, silent and unobtrusive. He opened doors without drawing attention, carried her bags without comment, and paused patiently whenever she needed to rest. They didn't discuss the attack unless she brought it up. That restraint, more than anything else, made the outings bearable—safe.
One afternoon, sunlight slanting across the library tables, they settled into their usual spot. Jasmine tapped at her laptop, focused, serene. Arnold flipped through a book he wasn't really reading, brows furrowed in concentration. Hidayah leaned back in her chair, breathing evenly, the rhythm of her chest unremarkable and almost miraculous.
For the first time since the incident, she felt close to normal. Not the old normal—the one that had existed before fear, before violence—but a new one, tentative and fragile, yet entirely hers.
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Recovery changed her sense of time.
Days no longer rushed past in blocks of schedules and commitments. Instead, they unfolded slowly—meals eaten properly, naps taken without guilt, conversations allowed to stretch without an endpoint. She learnt to let the minutes linger, to notice the intervals between one thought and the next, the small silences that carried no threat. Even the ticking of the clock felt less like a warning and more like a rhythm she could inhabit.
She began to notice things again.
The way her mother hummed softly while cooking, the tune shifting depending on the day's weather. The way the sunlight slanted through the living room window, painting lines of warmth across the carpet in the late afternoon. The rhythm of the neighbourhood—the distant rumble of MRT trains, the low murmur of children playing, the occasional bark of a dog—became familiar, comforting, proof that life moved steadily outside the walls of the flat, whether she joined it or not.
The quiet satisfaction of finishing a book without checking the clock. Of drinking tea while sitting on the balcony, letting the wind trace patterns across her skin. The simple, unhurried act of folding laundry and placing it neatly on the shelf. Every small task became a marker of continuity, a reassurance that she could exist safely and fully in the world again.
Sometimes, late at night, the memories tried to surface.
The blade. The shock. The metallic smell that had never left her memory. The blood she hadn't felt at first was pooling silently against her body while adrenaline carried her through instinct. Her chest would tighten, and for a moment, the past threatened to stretch its fingers into the present.
When that happened, she grounded herself the way she'd been taught—breathing, anchoring, reminding herself where she was. She traced her fingers along the edge of the sofa, felt the textured grain of the cushion beneath her palms, and listened to the steady hum of the city outside. Safe. Home. Surrounded.
Khairul always noticed when her messages slowed or stopped altogether. He never pressed. He never asked questions she wasn't ready to answer. Instead, he sent something steady in return:
I'm here.
Take your time.
You're not alone.
Those words were small, but in the rhythm of her days, they became a tether. Sometimes she simply replied with a single dot or a thumbs-up emoji, a recognition that she existed, that she was moving through the hours and not collapsing under them. And that was enough.
Graduation loomed in the background—not as an event, not as a fanfare, but as a quiet marker of something ending cleanly. She had finished. Survived. Moved forward. The problem-based learning, the lectures, the exams, and the long nights of study had become milestones of normalcy, proof that life could continue with order and rhythm. The future no longer felt like something she needed to brace for. It felt… possible.
She took to small rituals. Morning tea by the balcony, a walk to the wet market to buy her bread at the old bakery, folding her laundry by the afternoon sun. Each act was slow, deliberate, almost ceremonial, a recognition of her own capacity to care for herself again. Each small victory—the steady breath, the unshaken hand, the quiet laughter with Jasmine or Arnold—felt significant.
One quiet evening, as she sat on the sofa with her parents nearby and Khairul beside her, she realised something unexpected. The room smelt faintly of jasmine from the diffuser her mother had set up. The television played softly in the background, forgotten. Khairul's fingers brushed hers when he handed her the mug of tea, a gentle touch that anchored her to the present.
She wasn't waiting for her old life to return.
She was building a new one.
Slower. Softer. Stronger in ways that mattered.
Her chest expanded with a fullness she hadn't felt in months. Strength wasn't measured in physical ability alone, but in the courage to step out, to feel, to trust, to be alive. She allowed herself to let her shoulders drop, to lean back into the sofa, to feel the rhythm of her breathing in the quiet apartment.
For the first time since everything had gone wrong, that felt like more than enough.
And in the warmth of that evening, with quiet laughter floating from the living room, her parents' subtle attentiveness, and Khairul's steady presence, she understood something profound: healing did not erase what had happened. It did not rewrite memory or undo pain. It simply allowed life to continue beside it, in fragments that could eventually stitch together into something whole.
Something new.
And she was ready to live it.