It was still dark when the notification lit up the room.

2nd March 2025 — 5:00 a.m.

From the Faculty of Education, Universiti Kencana Malaysia.

Assalamualaikum and greetings,

Please be informed that the Teaching Practicum placement letters have been issued. All student teachers are required to report to their respective schools as scheduled.

Thank you.

Izhan read it once, then again, letting the words settle into the quiet of early morning.

Teaching practicum.

She placed the phone back beside her bed but did not return to sleep. The message lingered in her mind longer than expected, not because it was unexpected, but because it marked something she had already been circling for a long time.

She finally rose and made her way to the shower.

The water was cold.

It reached her feet first, sharp against the stillness of her body.

She paused.

Then stepped in fully.

The chill did not matter.

Her thoughts were already elsewhere.

Second practicum.

Two years ago, she had believed she had understood herself better after her time at PPDKB. That certainty had never stayed for long. It had faded quietly, like something she never fully managed to hold onto.

And yet, something in her still wanted this path.

Still wanted to try again.

She turned off the shower.

Water dripped from her fingers as she reached for her phone.

The screen lit up once more.

A new message waited.

Please confirm your name for school records.

Izhan.

She stared at it.

Not unfamiliar.

But not close either.

There was a distance now, subtle but undeniable, as if the name belonged to someone she used to be but was no longer fully aligned with.

Her thumb hovered.

No urgency. No pressure.

Just silence.

Then she pressed backspace.

Once.

Paused.

Then again.

Nazha.

It remained.

And for reasons she did not fully examine, she did not change it back.

Back when she was still a student, Izhan had never quite felt like she belonged in a classroom meant for future teachers.

She sat a little too comfortably in her chair, often half-listening while her thoughts drifted elsewhere, as if she were observing her own life from a slight distance.

Lesson plans never came easily to her.

Deadlines, however, did.

She had moved through different jobs before this stage of her life, learning how to handle people, pressure, and unpredictability outside academic structures.

But standing in front of a classroom was something else entirely.

Unfamiliar. Unsteady.

She held a degree in English Linguistics. TESL had once slipped through her path quietly, without certainty or celebration.

And yet, somehow, she had returned to it.

Trying again.

“Introduce yourselves,” said Professor Lily. “Please state your degree background and your preferred teaching placement.”

Izhan stood when it was her turn.

“I’m Izhan, an English graduate. I’d prefer to teach in secondary schools in Sabah… preferably around Kota Kinabalu, if possible.”

She sat down almost immediately after speaking, as though distance from the moment would make it easier to process.

Professor Lily tilted her head slightly.

“An English graduate,” she remarked. “That’s quite rare here.”

Most of the cohort came from social sciences and Islamic studies backgrounds.

Izhan did not respond.

There was nothing she needed to add.

By the end of the semester, she had done well.

Better than well, even.

Professor Lily’s Teaching Methodology class had been no exception.

On paper, everything about her performance reflected competence.

Consistency.

Capability.

But it did not sit comfortably within her.

There was a quiet disconnect she could not explain.

As though she had achieved something while standing slightly outside of it, never fully inside the version of herself that had earned it.

She never named it impostor syndrome.

She only lived with the feeling.

Silently.

Over time, the name Izhan began to feel heavier than before—not because it failed her, but because it reminded her of a version of herself who was still uncertain whether she truly belonged on this path.

So she stopped holding onto it in the same way.

Without announcement.

Without explanation.

Nazha was not chosen in a moment of clarity.

It emerged slowly, quietly, when no one was watching.

Back in the present, a package arrived from SOPIPI.

Inside it was a name tag.

Nazha.

No coat of arms.

No official insignia.

Not yet a confirmed teacher.

Only a trainee stands between definitions.

Izhan held it for a moment longer than necessary.

Then she murmured softly,

“Just for three months… I’ll still use my government name for official records.”

Still, she pinned the name tag onto her baju kurung.

Slowly.

Carefully.

As though acknowledging something she was not yet ready to fully define.

Nazha.

Not yet fully lived.

But no longer entirely separate.

3rd March 2025 — 6:30 a.m.

SM Putra

Izhan parked her Mini Cooper in front of Dewan Saujana.

She had already visited SM Putra earlier that morning to submit her permit and supporting documents.

To the principal, she was still Izhan.

For now.

She stepped out of the car.

Maroon baju kurung.

Beige hijab.

Transparent-rimmed glasses.

Her presence was noticed, but not disrupted.

She returned polite nods to passing teachers and continued walking toward the office.

“Yes, sir,” she said softly.

Principal Megat Zainal studied her for a moment.

Not unkindly.

Just… observing.

He leaned back on the sofa.

“I see.”

A pause.

“Your practicum documents still list Izhan.”

Izhan nodded.

“I’m aware.”

Silence settled between them.

Not uncomfortable.

Just measured.

Megat glanced at the file on his table.

“We’ll update it accordingly if needed,” he said finally.

Then, almost casually—

“Welcome to SM Putra, Nazha.”

Before the school bell rang, Nazha and Megat stood in a brief silence.

Their eyes met.

She didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

Nazha was firm in her identity.

Megat whispered under his breath,

“Interesting…”

Megat opened his notebook and began his first observation.

She stood with a posture that was almost too composed for a first-day practicum student. Upright, steady, controlled—there was no visible hesitation in the way she occupied space. It was as if she had already decided how she was supposed to be seen, and had stepped into that version of herself without delay.

Even her stillness felt intentional.

Her expression gave little away. Not nervous, not relaxed either—something in between, carefully contained. The kind of composure that did not come from comfort, but from control.

He noted it quietly.

This was not the usual uncertainty of someone new to the school environment. If anything, it felt rehearsed. Or adapted.

As though she was not merely entering a workplace, but adjusting into a new version of herself before anyone had the chance to define her first.

Megat paused for a moment, pen hovering above the page.

Then he wrote his final line.

A trainee in transition. Identity still forming.