My SPM results were out. Everything turned out good—better than I expected. Around the same time, my phone was finally given back to me. Life seemed to fall into place again, piece by piece.
After a few months, the letter came. I held it in trembling hands.
"Congratulations, you are offered a place at UTeM."
For the first time in years, I felt air rush into my lungs.
University. Hostel life. Freedom.
I hugged Amma and Appa, trying to hide my smile. Inside, I was screaming:
Finally... finally, I can breathe.
Leaving home wasn't easy—strict parents don't let go that simple. Amma gave her last warnings, her eyes sharper than knives.
"No boys. No love. Focus only on studies."
I nodded, but my heart was already racing toward the unknown.
UTeM was a new world. No one watching my every move. No rattan cane waiting in the hall. No Wi-Fi password locked from me.
For the first time, my phone was truly mine.
And almost naturally, his name appeared on my screen again.
"Congrats," he texted. "One day, I'll come meet you there."
I didn't know what to reply. Part of me still longed to see him, to hold the boy who had been only a voice, a dream.
Another part of me knew too well—he had already broken me twice.
Still, I wrote back,
"Thanks. I wish you luck with your life too."
We talked sometimes, sharing small things, like old friends who carried too much history to ever be strangers again.
I thought maybe this was how it would always be. Not lovers. Not strangers. Just something in between.
For once, life felt calm. The bruises faded. The tears slowed.
I walked to class freely, laughed with new friends, slept without fear of Amma's eyes watching me.
This was what freedom tasted like.
And it was sweet.
But sweet things don't last forever.
Because two years later, in 2021, news would come that shattered me more than any cane, more than any lie, more than any betrayal.