The beeping of machines was the first sound Hidayah noticed when consciousness returned.
It was steady. Mechanical. Unforgivingly precise. A rhythm that did not belong to her body, yet insisted on keeping time with it. The sound threaded its way through the haze in her mind and settled there, pulsing behind her eyes, matching the shallow, uncertain beat of her heart.
Her eyelids fluttered. They felt too heavy, as though sleep had glued them shut. When she finally managed to force them open, bright white light flooded her vision, sharp and disorienting. She squeezed her eyes shut again at once, then tried once more, slower this time.
The room came into focus in pieces.
White ceiling. Long fluorescent panels humming softly. Pale walls that seemed to stretch too far in every direction. The air smelled of antiseptic, clean and biting, with a faint metallic tang underneath that made the back of her throat feel dry.
She blinked several times, trying to understand where she was.
Pain answered first.
It bloomed across her chest like fire—hot, deep, and heavy. A dull, crushing ache radiated outward toward her shoulders, and when she tried to breathe in properly, a sharp stab shot through her ribs and forced the air back out of her lungs in a small, broken sound.
Her body felt wrong. Weak. Distant. As though it belonged to someone else and she had been placed inside it by mistake.
She tried to lift her arm.
The movement barely happened, but it was enough. Her chest tightened instantly, and she gasped, the pain flaring in warning. She let her arm fall back against the mattress, heart racing, breath shallow and careful.
Memory returned in fragments.
The futsal court.The glare of the sun.The ball.Joel.
A sudden, unstoppable force.
Concrete.
Her chest hitting the ground. The air driven out of her lungs. And then—
Nothing.
"Oh…" she whispered.
The sound was so small it barely felt real. Her throat was dry and raw, her voice hoarse, as though she had been screaming for a long time in a place where no sound could escape. She tried to turn her head, but the ache in her chest and neck made her stop.
A soft click came from the door.
Ms Poh stepped inside.
She looked the same as always—neat, composed, her posture straight—but there was something gentler in her expression now, something carefully restrained. Her eyes softened when they met Hidayah's.
"Good," she said quietly, walking over. "You're awake."
She checked the IV line, adjusted the drip with practised ease, then looked back at Hidayah. "You gave us a fright."
Hidayah swallowed. It hurt.
"I…" Her voice came out as a croak. She tried again. "I… okay?"
Ms Poh smiled, small but reassuring. "You're going to be fine. You were lucky. The paramedics did everything correctly. You're in Tan Tock Seng Hospital now. You need to rest."
The words floated around her without quite landing.
Hospital.
Rest.
The room felt too large. Too bright. Too real.
She became aware of the world beyond her bed—the muted footsteps in the corridor, the distant roll of a trolley, quiet voices speaking in low, careful tones. It was oddly comforting and deeply unsettling at the same time.
Her fingers moved without her thinking about it, drifting to her chest. She pressed lightly and winced. The pain throbbed back in response, deep and insistent, as though reminding her of gravity. Of impact. Of how fragile a body could be.
She remembered the ball hitting her.
Not the sound. The feeling.
The suddenness of it. The way the world had tilted violently. The way the ground had rushed up to meet her.
Her gaze drifted to the IV stand, the neatly tucked sheets, the blank, sterile walls. A strange helplessness settled over her. On the court, she was alert, fast, in control of her body. Here, she could barely lift her arm.
A soft knock came at the door.
Her father, Kamari, stood there, his face drawn tight with worry. Her mother, Azizah, was just behind him, holding a small bag as though it were something precious and fragile.
"Bidadari," her father said softly.
His voice shook.
That alone made her chest tighten more than the pain did.
They came to her side at once. Her mother smoothed her hair back gently, her touch careful.
"Don't move too much," she said. "Just breathe slowly, okay?"
Hidayah nodded, and to her surprise, her eyes stung.
She wasn't crying from the pain.
She was crying because of the way they were looking at her.
A nurse came in to check her vitals, to adjust her blanket, to speak in a calm, steady voice that made everything feel a little more manageable. Hidayah focused on her breathing, counting each careful inhale and exhale. It hurt, but it was bearable.
Outside, sunlight slipped through the blinds and painted pale stripes across the floor. The world was still going on. People were still walking. Cars were still moving. Somewhere, life was continuing at its normal pace.
She felt very far away from it.
Joel crossed her mind.
She did not feel angry.
She remembered his face, pale and frozen. The way his hands had been shaking. She knew he hadn't meant it. Accidents happened. She had moved forward. The ball had been fast. The timing had been wrong.
Still, she knew he would be carrying this.
Time passed strangely after that—stretching, folding, slipping away between beeps of the monitor and quiet conversations. Pain came and went in waves. Sometimes sharp. Sometimes dull and heavy.
But she was alive.
She flexed her fingers. Moved her legs slightly. Felt the ache flare and fade.
In the quiet, sterile light of the room, a simple truth settled into her bones:
She had survived.
And for now, that was enough.
She closed her eyes and let the steady beeping guide her back into rest, letting the pain remind her she was alive, letting the presence of her parents remind her she was loved.
Tomorrow could come later.