Hidayah woke before the alarm.
The room was still dark, the ceiling fan humming softly above her, the quiet of dawn pressed gently against the walls. For a moment, she lay still, listening—to the faint sounds of the house settling, to the distant rush of an early bus somewhere beyond the flats, and to her own breathing evening out as she orientated herself to the day.
She rose quietly, careful not to wake Noorasikin in the next bed, and folded her blanket with habitual precision. The tiles beneath her feet were cool as she moved toward the bathroom, movements unhurried and familiar. She took a quick shower and then dressed up in her comfortable homewear.
Wudhu came easily—hands, face, arms—each action practised enough to feel like muscle memory, but never careless.
When she stood on the prayer mat, the world narrowed.
Not dramatically. Not mystically.
Just enough.
Her voice was soft as she recited, steady and grounded, the words settling into her chest with the comfort of long familiarity. This was not a moment of asking. It was a moment of alignment—of placing herself back into the rhythm she trusted before the day demanded its attention.
When she finished, she remained seated for a few seconds longer, hands resting on her knees, eyes lowered.
Let me move through today with clarity.
That was all.
By the time she entered the kitchen, the house was awake.
The smell of toasted bread and frying eggs filled the air, layered with kopi and the faint sweetness of condensed milk. Her mother stood at the stove, hijab pinned loosely, moving between pans with effortless coordination. Her father sat at the table, newspaper folded beside his plate, glasses perched low on his nose as he scrolled through his phone.
Yazid leaned against the counter, half-dressed, sipping coffee like it was an essential life support system. Noorasikin was already seated, hair tied back, scrolling through something on her tablet while chewing methodically. Afidah and Aishah were bickering softly over who had taken whose mug, voices sharp but not angry. Muhammad hovered near the fridge, opening and closing it as if hoping something new might appear.
"Morning," Hidayah said, reaching for a plate.
"Morning, future doctor," Yazid said without looking up.
"Don't start," she replied lightly.
Her mother turned and smiled. "Eat properly. Long day today."
"I will."
They sat together—not perfectly aligned, not ceremoniously—but present. Plates passed. Cups refilled. Conversations overlapped: Aishah complaining about school, Afidah insisting she was being unfairly accused, Muhammad announcing something about a test he definitely hadn't studied for.
Hidayah listened, amused, anchored by the noise.
This—this ordinary chaos—was home. The place where she didn't need to explain herself, where her faith was not a question and her ambition not a curiosity. It simply existed, woven into daily routine alongside chores, teasing, and shared meals.
Her father glanced at her. "Are you heading early?"
"Yes. First lecture's anatomy."
He nodded once. "Take care."
It was enough.
When she stood to leave, slinging her bag over her shoulder, her mother pressed a container into her hand. "Eat later."
Hidayah smiled. "Thanks, Mama."
She stepped out into the morning light feeling steady, nourished in ways that had nothing to do with food.
By the time she reached campus, the day had already taken shape.
University did not begin with certainty.
It began with movement.
----------
The lecture theatre was already half full when Hidayah slipped inside.
She scanned quickly—habit from years of assembly halls and drills—then took the empty seat beside a girl flipping through printed slides with aggressive efficiency.
"Sorry—this seat taken?" Hidayah asked.
The girl looked up, blinked once. "No no. Sit, sit."
"Thanks."
They settled without fuss, the unspoken agreement of strangers sharing space. The air smelled faintly of air-conditioning and coffee. Somewhere behind them, someone dropped a pen and swore softly.
"I'm Hidayah," she said, turning slightly.
"Rachel." The girl paused, then added, "You from poly or JC?"
"JC."
"Same." Rachel nodded approvingly, as if this solved something important. "Okay lah, at least we suffered the same way."
Hidayah smiled. That sounded about right.
By the end of the lecture, Rachel had already introduced her to the rest of the row—six of them, loosely clustered, all first-years from the same course, gravitating toward each other the way people did when everyone was equally lost.
They spilt out together, voices overlapping.
"Wah, the lecturer is damn fast sia."
"I thought uni was supposed to be more chill?"
"Chill your head. That slide just now—confirm examinable."
Someone groaned. Someone else laughed.
At the walkway outside, they slowed instinctively, forming a rough circle.
"Lunch?" one of the guys asked.
"Now? Still early, what?"
"Early eat, later study," another replied. "Efficiency."
Rachel turned to Hidayah. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Hidayah said easily. "Anywhere also can."
"Okay, good. You're not picky; that's important," Rachel declared, already walking. "Come, we go to the canteen first. Safer."
They walked with the easy rhythm of people not yet friends but not strangers either—close enough to talk, far enough to adjust if needed.
At the table, trays clattered. Drinks were claimed. Someone immediately started complaining.
"I swear, all this campus coffee tastes the same."
"You drink kopi O kosong every day; what do you expect?"
"Consistency is a virtue."
Hidayah listened more than she spoke at first, smiling at the right places, letting the group find its balance. She answered when asked, didn't force stories, and didn't shrink either.
"So you stay in hall or commuting?" a girl asked.
"No, I commute."
"Wah. Respect."
"Yah lor, that means you wake up very early."
"Habit," Hidayah said simply.
They accepted that without probing.
Later, during their first group study session—crammed into a corner of the library with mismatched chairs and too many laptops—tensions surfaced lightly, the way they always did.
"Eh, this part confirm important right?"
"Important lah, but not that important."
"How do you know?"
"Feeling."
"Feeling won't save you during exams, okay."
Rachel glanced at Hidayah. "You are very calm ah."
Hidayah looked up from her notes. "Panic also won't make me understand faster."
There was a beat.
Then someone laughed. "Eh, true sia."
From then on, it became a small thing—how they deferred to her without announcing it. When discussions got messy, someone would glance at her. When deadlines felt heavy, she was the one who broke things down quietly.
"Okay, we do this first," she'd say. "That one can wait."
No drama. No command.
Just clarity.
Weeks passed like that—lectures, labs, study sessions that stretched longer than planned, dinners that turned into suppers. Hidayah learnt their habits quickly: who needed reminding, who pretended not to care but did, and who always forgot their charger.
They learnt hers too.
"She's never late once," someone said once.
"She eat very fast."
"She always got snacks."
"She don't complain, but if she talks, you listen."
One evening, as they packed up after a long session, Rachel nudged her.
"Eh, tomorrow is archery, right?"
Hidayah blinked. "You know?"
"You carry a bow case everywhere. Very obvious, okay?"
"Oh." She laughed. "Yeah."
"Wah, cool. Serious kind or hobby?"
"Serious," Hidayah said, then added lightly, "But not scary."
Rachel grinned. "Good. We scared already."
They walked out together, the sky darkening above campus, lights flickering on one by one. The conversation drifted—to assignments, to food, to nothing in particular.
Hidayah felt it then—not excitement, not triumph.
Belonging.
Quiet. Functional. Unforced.
She didn't have to perform competence. She didn't have to explain discipline. She could simply be—focused, steady, present—without translating herself.
That night, back at home, she messaged Jasmine to confirm their weekend meet-up, then returned to her notes.
First year was not gentle.
But it was grounded.
And Hidayah moved through it the way she always had—not rushing ahead, not holding back—just steady, deliberate, and fully herself.
------------
Hidayah reached Northpoint City just after sunset.
The mall was alive in its usual way—families drifting toward dinner, students in slippers and lanyards crowding escalators, the air thick with competing smells of fried chicken, soup, and sugar. She wove through the crowd easily, bow case slung over one shoulder, phone in hand.
Outside KFC.
She typed.
On my way down.
Jasmine replied almost immediately.
I'm already queueing. You late then you buy drink.
Hidayah smiled and slipped her phone away.
At KFC, Jasmine spotted her first and waved with one hand, the other already clutching a tray like it might be stolen.
"You see lah," Jasmine said as Hidayah approached. "Confirm long queue. Lucky we came early."
"You always say that," Hidayah replied, setting her bag down. "But you also always hungry."
"That one's different," Jasmine said seriously. "Business student. Energy very important."
Hidayah raised an eyebrow. "International Business Management need fried chicken?"
"Yes," Jasmine said without hesitation. "Globalisation."
They sat.
For a moment, neither of them spoke—just unwrapped food, passed napkins, adjusted trays. The comfort of it settled easily, like muscle memory.
"So," Jasmine said eventually, biting into her chicken. "Uni life how?"
"Busy," Hidayah said. Then, after a beat, "But okay."
"Archery still on?"
"Yeah."
"Wah," Jasmine said, impressed. "Very you."
"And you?" Hidayah asked. "Still drowning in case studies?"
Jasmine groaned. "Don't talk about it. Every week some company failing, then we must pretend we can save them."
Hidayah laughed softly. "At least you not saving real people."
"Yet," Jasmine said ominously. "Wait till internship."
They ate, the noise of the mall flowing around them—trays scraping, kids whining, someone laughing too loudly nearby. It felt easy. Unforced.
"You seem… settled," Jasmine said suddenly, looking at her more closely.
Hidayah paused. Considered. Then nodded. "Yeah."
"No drama?"
"Enough already," Hidayah said lightly. "Now I just want to do things properly."
Jasmine studied her for a moment, then smiled. "Good."
They didn't need to say more than that.
When they finished eating, they lingered a little longer, sharing fries they didn't need, talking about nothing urgent—hall rumours, lecturers with strange habits, plans that were still vague enough to be safe.
Outside, night had fully settled over Yishun.
When they finally stood, Jasmine bumped her shoulder gently. "Next time you busy, just say. Don't disappear."
"I won't," Hidayah said. And she meant it.
They parted at the escalator, waving once before being carried in opposite directions.
As Hidayah walked home later, the day felt complete—not because it had been remarkable, but because it had been full.
Study. Discipline. New beginnings.
And old friendships that still knew exactly where to find her.
She adjusted the strap on her shoulder and kept walking—steady, deliberate, and exactly where she was meant to be.