#regat

The huge house was always quiet after that. The helpers spoke in hushed tones, moving carefully around him like he was fragile, as if raising their voices might break him. His cousins, older and untouchable, played rough and wild during family gatherings, but Megat was always left behind.

“Shah kecik lagi,” they would say, tousling his hair affectionately before running off to whatever adventure awaited them. “Nanti dah besar Shah boleh join.”

But Megat was never big enough.

By the time he was eleven, Megat learned to carry silence the way other kids carried their school bags. It weighed on him, familiar and constant. His father once told him that loneliness built character. Megat wasn’t sure what kind of character it was supposed to build.

When he told his parents he wanted to enroll in KUDRAT, they had looked surprised.

“Boarding school?” His father had lowered his newspaper just enough to peer at him over the rim of his glasses. His mother had set down her coffee cup carefully, as if expecting him to take it back.

“Shah nak belajar berdikari,” Megat said. “Lagipun dekat sana mesti Shah tak sunyi macam dekat rumah.”

It felt embarrassing to say aloud, but it was the truth.

His mother’s gaze softened, and when she hugged him that night, she held on longer than usual.

“We love you, sayang,” she whispered. “Nanti kalau Shah dapat, jaga diri elok-elok dekat sana. Mama tahu Shah kuat.”

Megat wasn’t sure if strength had anything to do with it. He just didn’t want to feel lonely anymore.

The first few weeks at KUDRAT were suffocating.

The other students spoke loudly, moved in groups, and laughed in a way that felt like nails against his skin. Megat sat quietly in the dining hall, alone, eating the bland dining hall food because that was what he was supposed to do.

Until one day, a boy plopped down next to him without warning.

“Macam mana kau boleh jawab soalan math tadi before Cikgu Yasmin explained?” the boy asked, his Kelantan accent thick and sharp in a way that made Megat blink.

Megat looked up from his plate. He hadn’t even noticed him sit down.

“Aku tanya ni. Jawabla.” The boy grinned, knocking his shoulder against Megat’s playfully.

“Aku cuba jawab je. Tak tahu pulak betul,” Megat mumbled.

The boy rolled his eyes. “Ceh poyo, taknak share tip.”

Megat didn’t know it yet, but that was how Abdul Reza bin Abu Yamin entered his life—loud, bright, and completely uninvited.

Reza was competitive. He glared whenever Megat raised his hand first in class and shot him dirty looks when Megat submitted his homework earlier. But somewhere along the way, competition blurred into companionship, and by the time their teacher started pairing them together for group projects, Reza had somehow become Megat’s first real friend.

It was easy with Reza. He wasn’t intimidated by Megat’s family title, didn’t treat him like he was fragile, and certainly didn’t hold back when they bickered.

Megat liked that.

By the time they were sixteen, everyone at KUDRAT knew their names.

Reza and Megat. A set. They were inseparable—Megat with his cunning and grace personality. Reza with his unwavering confidence and beilliant repotation. If you saw one of them, the other was never far behind.

“Mu dua ni dah macam laki bini,” Kahar teased once, earning a shove from Reza and an eye roll from Megat.

“Mu dengan saing kecik mu tu pon macam laki bini jugak,” Reza shot back, smirking.

"Bechik dengan Hakeem cinta monyet keeee?". Megat smirked, nudging Reza’s arm with his elbow as if to say yeah, right and laughs when Kahar whined.

Their friendship was easy. Comfortable. It comes very naturally.

But then came the kudeta.

And Megat learned that silence could be deafening.

The night after the kudeta, Megat sat alone in his dorm room. The air felt too thick, pressing down on his chest until he thought it might crush him.

There was something cruel about the way the world kept moving, as if nothing had changed. Megat still attended classes, still ate at the dining hall, still played his role as Kapla. But everything felt hollow.

He was surrounded by people—the High Council, juniors who feared him, even friends who stayed close—but none of them were Reza.

And God, wasn’t that the most pathetic thing?

That out of everyone, Reza was the one he wanted to talk to.

He hears Reza’s laugh sometimes—echoing from across the schoolyard, too far away to reach.

And no matter how many people surround him, Megat feels like he’s standing in an empty room.

It’s the kind of loneliness that feels like heartbreak.

Like something was torn out of him, and the wound won’t close.

He wonders if Reza feels it too.

But he never asks.