Graduation day arrived quietly.
There was no thunderous sense of triumph, no cinematic swell of music the way Hidayah had once imagined it would feel. Instead, it came like a steady breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding for years—gentle, grounding, and real.
The morning light filtered into her room as she stood in front of the mirror, fingers smoothing over the fabric of her dress. It was formal and elegant without being excessive, chosen carefully for comfort as much as appearance. The faint scar beneath the fabric was still there, though healed enough now that it no longer ached. It was part of her body, part of her story—but it no longer defined the moment.
Her mother hovered nearby, adjusting the fold of her shawl with practised care.
"You look beautiful," she said softly.
Hidayah smiled. Not out of politeness. Out of truth.
Her father stood by the door, hands clasped behind his back, watching her with an expression that carried pride, relief, and something deeper—something unspoken. He didn't say much. He didn't need to.
They left the house together, the air outside warm and familiar. The campus gates came into view, banners lining the walkways, students in formal attire moving in clusters with their families. Laughter floated through the air. Camera shutters clicked. Parents fussed. Friends hugged too tightly.
It felt… normal.
Inside the hall, the ceremony unfolded with precision. Names were called. Applause followed in polite waves. When Hidayah's name was announced, she rose, heart steady, steps sure, crossing the stage. She accepted the certificate with both hands. In that moment, nothing else intruded. Not memory. Not fear. Not echoes of violence or obsession. Just the weight of achievement and the quiet knowledge that she had survived—not just academically, but wholly.
Returning to her seat, her eyes instinctively scanned the crowd. That was when she saw him.
Khairul stood near the aisle, dressed in a tailored dark suit that fit him effortlessly, posture calm, expression unreadable in that familiar way that always grounded her. When their eyes met, he didn't wave. He didn't smile broadly. He just nodded. The way he always did. As if to say, 'I'm here.'
Her chest tightened in that familiar way—a mixture of relief and the quiet thrill of recognition. She realised how much of her attention over the past months had been subconsciously scanning for him, for his presence, for reassurance that the world was still steady somewhere outside her memories of fear. And here he was.
The ceremony ended in a wash of applause and movement. Graduates spilt into the buffet area with their families, faculty members circulating with congratulations and light conversation. The air smelt of catered food and flowers, a scent that somehow felt both celebratory and intimate, grounding her in the present. Photo booths were set up along one side, with a backdrop emblazoned with the university crest and the year in gold lettering.
Jasmine found her almost immediately, eyes already shining.
"You did it," she breathed, pulling Hidayah into a careful hug. "You actually did it."
Arnold hovered close, smiling, his hand resting lightly at Jasmine's waist. They looked settled. Happy.
Hidayah felt it then—that quiet joy of knowing the people she loved were moving forward too.
Khairul joined them a little later, greeting her parents respectfully, exchanging words that were polite and warm. Her mother smiled at him knowingly. Her father's handshake lingered just a second longer than necessary.
"You should take photos," Jasmine insisted. "Before everyone disappears."
They moved toward the photo booth together. Hidayah adjusted her grip on the edge of Khairul's sleeve as they stood side by side. The photographer lifted the camera.
"Alright," the photographer said cheerfully. "Closer."
Khairul shifted. Not closer. Lower.
The movement didn't register at first. Not until Hidayah felt the absence beside her—and then saw him.
Kneeling.
The noise around them dulled instantly, like someone had turned down the world's volume. The photographer froze. Jasmine's sharp inhale was audible. Someone gasped behind them.
Khairul reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small velvet box. He looked up at her then—not nervous, not rushed. Just steady.
"Hidayah," he said quietly, voice low enough that it felt like it was meant only for her. "You've survived things no one should have had to. You've grown into yourself with strength I can only admire."
Her breath caught. The words felt like a warm current she had been holding herself apart from for months, finally brushing against her fully.
"I don't want to promise you a perfect life," he continued. "I want to promise you presence. Patience. And a future we build together, at your pace."
He opened the box.
"Will you marry me?"
For a moment, she couldn't speak. The world had shrunk to the quiet between them, the velvet box in his hand, and the steady pulse of his gaze. Then she nodded, laughter and tears colliding in her chest.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes!"
The applause broke around them—loud, surprised, joyful. Jasmine was crying openly now. Arnold laughed, clapping hard. Someone shouted congratulations.
Khairul stood, slipping the ring onto her finger with careful hands. But the moment didn't belong to the crowd.
He leaned in and murmured, "Come with me."
He guided her gently away before anyone could pull them back into the noise, leading her down a side corridor and out onto a small terrace tucked beside the building. The door closed softly behind them, sealing the world outside.
Silence settled.
Hidayah exhaled shakily, legs suddenly weak. Khairul didn't hesitate. He pulled her into his arms, firm and grounding, one hand at the back of her head, the other wrapped around her shoulders. She leaned into him fully, forehead pressed against his chest, breath breaking quietly.
She cried then—not loudly. Just enough.
"I didn't know I needed this," she whispered.
"I did," he replied gently.
She pulled back enough to look at him, eyes shining.
"I'm still healing."
"I know."
"I still have days where things feel… fragile."
"I know."
"And you're still here."
He smiled softly. "I'm not going anywhere."
They stayed there a long time, listening to the distant hum of the city, the soft rustle of the terrace leaves in the evening breeze, the faint laughter of friends and family behind the closed door. No words were necessary beyond what had been said. Presence, patience, and the quiet acknowledgment of survival spoke louder than any declaration could.
Hidayah's mind drifted back over the past months—the slow days of healing, the careful steps through recovery, the nights of quiet terror, the gentle constancy of her parents, and Khairul's unwavering presence. Each memory, even painful ones, now fit into a larger mosaic, a map of survival and resilience. She felt herself exhale fully for the first time in years, a long, measured breath that released tension she hadn't known she'd been holding.
"I never thought I'd feel normal again," she murmured.
"You don't have to," Khairul said. "Normal is overrated. We get to make something better."
Her fingers found his, lacing easily with his own. The sensation anchored her, each subtle touch a promise of continuity, of partnership. She let herself lean into him again, feeling the quiet hum of his steady heartbeat against her cheek.
When they returned to the hall, the celebration resumed naturally—photos, laughter, family conversations—but something had shifted. The past no longer stood between her and the future. It stayed behind her.
That evening, as the sun dipped low and the crowd thinned, Hidayah stood with her family, Khairul beside her—not hovering, not guarding, just present. For the first time in a long while, she didn't feel watched. She felt chosen. And safe.
The terrace became theirs for a few stolen moments more. Hidayah rested against the railing, the breeze soft on her face. Khairul stood close, hand brushing hers, their movements quiet, deliberate, and unhurried. They did not need grand words; the silence itself was a testament to their trust, their shared history, and the unspoken vow that they would move forward together, at their own pace.
She turned her head, meeting his gaze, letting herself absorb the entirety of it—the calm, the steadiness, the quiet strength that had been a lifeline all these months. And she knew: no matter what else the world demanded of them, this moment, this presence, this choice, was theirs alone.
It was enough.