Michael realised something was wrong on Saturday morning.
Not wrong in the obvious sense.
Nothing had gone badly.
Nothing had blown up in his face.
And yet—
He woke up with a sense of restlessness he couldn't shake.
He lay on his bed longer than usual, phone in hand, thumb hovering idly over the screen. Messages from his teammates filled the chat group—plans for brunch, jokes that were already stale, someone complaining about sore shoulders.
Normally, he would have replied immediately.
Normally, he would have been the loudest voice in the room.
Today, he wasn't.
His mind kept drifting back to the same image.
A girl walking away.
Not alone.
Never alone.
Michael sat up with a sigh and ran a hand through his hair.
It didn't make sense.
He wasn't rejected outright.
She hadn't embarrassed him.
She hadn't even been unkind.
If anything, she'd been… polite.
And somehow, that was worse.
He had tried to place her since Wednesday night.
Hidayah.
The name stayed with him longer than it should have.
He thought about the way she spoke—measured, calm. The way she didn't linger, didn't search his face for reaction or approval.
She moved like someone who already knew where she was going.
And Michael hated that he didn't know where that was.
By the afternoon, he found himself back on campus.
He told himself it was habit.
That he always came by on weekends.
That he needed the space.
But the truth was simpler.
He was looking.
The campus was quieter than usual.
No classes. Fewer students. The walkways echoed differently, footsteps carrying further than they did on weekdays.
Michael wandered past the sports hall.
Empty.
The archery range was closed.
No familiar ponytail. No steady stance. No quiet focus to watch from a distance.
He frowned.
Of course she wouldn't be here.
She had a life beyond this place.
And that was the problem.
Meanwhile, across the island, Hidayah sat cross-legged on her bed, sunlight spilling across the floor.
Her laptop was open, notes half-finished.
She wasn't rushing.
Weekends no longer carried the quiet dread they once had.
In her first life, weekends had often felt hollow—too much time to think, too many unspoken expectations hanging in the air.
Now, they were simply… days.
Her phone buzzed.
Jasmine: Brunch later?
Hidayah smiled.
Hidayah: Give me an hour. Still cleaning notes.
Jasmine: Okay! Same place?
Hidayah: Yep.
She closed her laptop and stretched, muscles pleasantly sore from the week's training.
There was comfort in routine.
There was power in choosing how to spend her time.
Brunch was easy.
They sat in a familiar café near home, sunlight filtering through large windows as chatter buzzed around them.
Jasmine talked animatedly about choir—upcoming performances, seniors who took things too seriously, the relief of not having training that day.
Hidayah listened, sipping her drink, occasionally chiming in.
She didn't check her phone once.
At one point, Jasmine paused, stirring her coffee thoughtfully.
"You know," she said, "you've been… different lately."
Hidayah raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"
"Calmer," Jasmine replied. "Like you're not rushing toward anything."
Hidayah considered that.
"I think I finally learned how not to," she said quietly.
Jasmine smiled.
That evening, Michael sat alone at a kopitiam near his place, food untouched.
His phone buzzed. He checked it instinctively.
Not her.
Never her.
He didn't even know if she had his number.
The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
He replayed Wednesday again.
Not the words.
The way she stood.
The way she waited for Jasmine after training without impatience.
The way she walked beside her friend like that was exactly where she belonged.
Michael had always believed closeness was something you reached for.
He was starting to realise—
Some people already had it.
Sunday came quietly.
Hidayah spent the morning helping her mother at home, laughter drifting through the kitchen as they worked side by side.
Kamari watched from the doorway, content.
Later, she practiced finger stretches absentmindedly, the ghost of a bowstring still familiar against her skin.
Her life felt… aligned.
No rushing.
No forcing.
Just progression.
Michael went for a run.
Hard.
Fast.
He ran until his lungs burned and his legs ached, trying to outrun a feeling he couldn't name.
But it stayed with him.
That sense of being on the outside of something that mattered.
Sunday night settled in.
Hidayah laid out her clothes for Monday without stress. Checked her schedule. Plugged in her phone.
Another week awaited.
Another set of choices she would make deliberately.
She thought, briefly, of the rugby guy.
Just briefly.
Then the thought passed.
Somewhere else, Michael stared at his ceiling, phone resting uselessly beside him.
He realised something then.
He wasn't waiting for her to notice him.
He was waiting for her life to slow down enough for him to catch up.
And deep down—
He knew she wouldn't.