The lights in the neighbouring apartments dimmed one by one, until only a few windows remained lit against the night.

Nazha sat at the edge of her bed, her notebook resting open on her lap. The faint yellow glow from her desk lamp pooled over the page, catching the uneven strokes of her handwriting.

2 Ukhuwah.
Loud.
Restless.

Her pen hovered for a moment before she added another line.

A student who struggled to read.
Rachel.

She paused, eyes lingering on the name.

There had been something about the girl—something that didn’t quite sit right with the rest of the class. While the others moved, talked, laughed, Rachel had hesitated. Stumbled. As if the words themselves refused to meet her halfway.

Nazha exhaled softly and closed the notebook.

She understood what she had seen.

But understanding alone didn’t feel like enough.

Faizal’s voice echoed faintly in her mind.

They understand too fast… but correct nothing yet.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the notebook before she finally set it aside and reached for the switch.

Darkness settled into the room.

Tomorrow, she would get her answer.

The next morning, the corridor was quieter than she expected.

Nazha stood outside the English panel room, her notes held neatly against her chest. For a brief second, she found herself replaying the classroom in her head—the shifting chairs, overlapping voices, the constant movement that refused to settle.

She lifted her hand and knocked.

“Come in.”

Faizal was seated behind his desk, his attention fixed on a tablet. He didn’t look up immediately, only raising one hand in a small gesture, inviting her inside.

Nazha stepped in, closing the door gently behind her.

For a moment, she hesitated. Then she turned to him, her curiosity no longer held back.

“What did you mean,” she asked, “about something I missed?”

A quiet chuckle escaped him.

“2 Ukhuwah?” he said, as if confirming it for himself. “Low-proficiency class.”

He finally looked up, his gaze steady but unreadable.

“They don’t stay seated,” he continued. “Always moving. Restless.”

Nazha nodded slightly. That part, at least, she had seen.

“Put them in groups,” he added, tapping a finger lightly against the surface of his desk. “They function better that way.”

There was a brief pause before he went on.

“But individually…”

He shook his head, almost to himself.

“That’s where it breaks.”

Nazha’s brows drew together as she processed his words. Images from the previous day resurfaced—students shifting in their seats, unfinished responses, the uneven rhythm of participation.

“You’ll rarely find one who can pass everything,” Faizal said. “English included.”

Silence settled between them.

Nazha lowered her gaze slightly, her thoughts aligning, rearranging, correcting themselves.

Then, slowly—

“So… classroom control is my biggest challenge here.”

She looked back up.

Faizal didn’t respond immediately.

He simply watched her.

Not with approval.

Not with dismissal.

But with a quiet patience that made her wonder if she had only just begun to see the surface of it.

Faizal stood up and planned to bring her to 2 Ukhuwah again for her to demonstrate how his corrections work.

“Come,” Faizal said, already rising from his chair.

“Talking won’t help you.”

Nazha followed without another question.

The noise reached them before the door even opened.

Chairs scraping. Laughter overlapping. Voices that refused to settle into one another.

2 Ukhuwah.

Faizal pushed the door open and stepped in.

Nothing changed.

No one noticed.

Nazha lingered a step behind, eyes scanning the same familiar chaos—students half-standing, half-seated, conversations spilling across groups. The same movement she had written down the night before.

Loud. Restless.

Uncontained.

Faizal walked to the front of the class and stopped.

He didn’t raise his voice.

Didn’t clap.

Didn’t call out a name.

“Chairs.”

One word.

Clear. Even.

It didn’t sound loud.

But it landed.

A few students paused. One dragged a chair. Another followed.

Not silence.

But a shift.

Nazha felt it before she fully saw it—the room adjusting, inch by inch.

Faizal didn’t repeat himself.

He simply watched.

Waiting.

A boy near the window hesitated, still turned halfway to his friend.

Faizal’s gaze moved.

Nothing else.

Just that.

The boy straightened immediately, pulling his chair in with a sharp scrape.

The sound echoed louder than it should have.

Within seconds, the movement began to settle.

Not perfect.

But contained.

Faizal stepped forward slightly, his presence now filling the front of the room.

“Groups,” he said.

No explanation.

No elaboration.

Yet the students shifted again—desks turning, bodies aligning, clusters forming with surprising familiarity.

Nazha blinked.

They already knew this.

They just hadn’t done it yesterday.

Faizal let the arrangement finish before speaking again.

“Now we can start.”

His tone didn’t change.

Still calm.

Still controlled.

But this time, the room held.

No overlapping voices.

No wandering movement.

Just a quiet that hadn’t existed before.

Nazha stood at the side, her notebook forgotten in her hands.

It wasn’t the seating.

It wasn’t the grouping.

It was him.

The timing.

The pauses.

The way he said less—and meant more.

Faizal turned slightly, just enough for her to catch his expression.

“Control first,” he said quietly.

“Then you teach.”

He stepped back.

Just a step.

But it felt like space opening.

“For the next class,” he added, almost casually, “you observe again.”

A brief pause.

“Properly this time.”

Nazha’s grip tightened around her notebook.

Her eyes moved across the room once more.

Same class.

Different atmosphere.

She finally understood what she had missed.

“Control first. Teaching comes after.”

Faizal’s gaze lingered on Nazha a moment longer than before.

There was a shift—small, but there.

A faint smile touched the corner of his lips, gone almost as quickly as it came.

She was beginning to see it.

But only just.

“Don’t be too quick to conclude,” he said, his voice even as he turned slightly away.

Nazha lowered her eyes to her notebook, her fingers tightening unconsciously around its edge. The classroom behind him was still settled—held in a way she hadn’t managed yesterday.

“2 Ukhuwah is only one side of it,” Faizal continued.

He glanced back at her.

“There are two more classes.”

A brief pause.

“2 Amanah.”

His tone remained steady.

“The middle.”

Another pause.

“And 2 Ikhlas.”

This time, something firmer settled in his voice.

“The top.”

Nazha looked up again, following the weight of his words.

Different levels.

Different classrooms.

Different problems.

“Observe them,” Faizal said.

Not an option.

An expectation.

Nazha nodded slowly.

What she had seen so far—what she thought she understood—suddenly felt incomplete.

Three classes.

Three different worlds.

And she had only just stepped into the first.

A faint vibration broke the stillness.

Nazha glanced down at her phone, the screen lighting up in her hand.

A message.

From the university’s official Telegram channel.

She tapped it open.

Assalamualaikum and greetings,

Dear students,

Don’t forget to complete your weekly reflection for Week 1 before you begin teaching next week.

Please ensure it is signed by the principal.

Nazha read it once.

Then again.

Her gaze lingered on the last line.

Signed by the principal.

A quiet exhale slipped past her lips.

Her fingers hovered over the screen before she finally locked it, the light fading back into silence.

The principal.

Her thoughts shifted almost immediately—

to him.

Megat.

The name settled differently here. Formal. Distant.

Not the version she had known before.

Nazha straightened slightly, her grip tightening around her notebook.

Teaching.

Next week.

And before that—

She would have to face him.

Not as someone familiar.

But as a trainee.

Nazha made her way to the administration block, her steps steady against the tiled floor.

The hallway was already alive.

Students moved in loose streams—some returning from the canteen, laughter trailing behind them, while others lingered along the benches facing Dataran Gemilang. A few sat with their bags beside them, watching the morning unfold without urgency.

As she passed, a voice called out—

“Good morning, Teacher Nazha.”

She blinked, momentarily caught off guard.

Another followed.

“Morning, teacher.”

Nazha’s eyes widened slightly before she caught herself.

“Oh—good morning,” she replied, her voice softer than she intended.

A small nod. A brief smile.

She continued walking, but the words lingered.

Teacher Nazha.

It sounded unfamiliar.

Heavier than expected.

Her grip tightened slightly around her notebook as she moved further down the corridor, the noise of students fading behind her.

Each step brought her closer to the administration office—

and to the signature she needed.

The tall, lanky man stood by the window, his figure outlined against the muted light outside.

Megat.

His hands were clasped behind his back, posture firm—yet his expression betrayed a flicker of uncertainty as he stared through the tinted glass.

“Why… Nazha?” he murmured under his breath.

The name didn’t sit quite right.

Not unfamiliar.

Just… not complete.

Outside, the guest lounge sat just beyond the tinted panel—close enough for shadows to move, but not clear enough to make out details.

A figure shifted.

Then—

A face appeared.

Syarah pressed closer to the glass, trying to peek in despite the tint.

“…Sir?”

A beat.

“Testing new superpower, sir?” she called out, half-amused.

Megat jolted slightly, caught off guard.

He turned toward the window, his composure slipping for just a fraction of a second before settling back into place.

Nazha knocked softly, her reflection file held close against her chest.

“Come in.”

She stepped inside.

The office felt… different.

Too refined.

A dark wooden desk stood neatly arranged at the centre, its surface almost too clean. A tall sansevieria rested quietly in the corner, its leaves stretching upward with quiet confidence. Behind him, a large painting of Bukit Keteri filled the wall—calm, imposing, unmistakably deliberate.

Nazha lowered herself onto the chair across from him.

It felt smaller than it should have.

Quieter.

I should’ve noticed this on the first day, she thought.

Megat flipped through the pages, his expression unchanged.

Then he stopped.

2 Ukhuwah.

His eyes moved slowly across the lines—

Loud.
Restless.
Group seating works.
Individual response is weak.

A faint pause.

His finger tapped lightly against the margin.

“Chairs. Groups.”

He said it almost absently.

Then he looked up.

“Faizal showed you.”

Not a question.

A statement.

Nazha blinked, slightly caught off guard.

“…Yes, sir.”

Megat leaned back, closing the file halfway.

“You saw the problem yesterday,” he said.
“But today—”

A small pause.

“You started to structure it.”

Nazha held her breath without realising.

He studied her for a moment longer.

“That’s the difference,” he continued. “Most people stop at observation.”

His gaze sharpened slightly.

“You didn’t.”

A brief silence settled between them.

Megat lowered the file completely now, his tone shifting—quieter, more deliberate.

“Control isn’t the goal,” he said.
“It’s the condition.”

Nazha’s fingers tightened around her notebook.

“If the room holds,” he went on, “then learning has somewhere to happen.”

Another pause.

His eyes met hers.

“And you’re beginning to understand that.”

Not praise.

Not fully.

But close.

Nazha nodded slowly.

“It’s still early,” she said. “But I’ll manage.”

Megat exhaled softly.

Relief, again—but measured.

“I know,” he replied.

Then, after a brief pause—

“You’re not just writing what you see.”

His voice dropped slightly.

“You’re thinking like a teacher.”