23.02.2025.

Exactly one year ago today, I moved out of my first rented house in Shah Alam. I stayed there from October 2022 until February 2025. Almost two and a half years. Long enough for it to stop feeling temporary. Long enough for it to shape me.

When I first moved in, I wasn't alone. I had a roommate, someone who felt more like a sister than just a friend, my best friend 🍑. Adjusting felt less frightening because we were doing it together. We did not just share a room, we shared stories, stress, inside jokes, recipes (hehe), and quiet support during hard days. I'm not gonna lie, her presence in the room cured my homesickness even if just a little bit. 

And around us were other housemates, once strangers, living in the other rooms. We didn't start as a family. We started as people simply sharing a house. But slowly, through shared kitchens, borrowed items, random late-night conversations, games and movie nights, laughter, passive-aggressive jokes, misunderstandings and reconciliations, they became part of my daily life. They become familiar. They became my safe place there in Shah Alam.

Then my roommate graduated.

 And so the room became quieter.

From late 2023 until Feb 2025, it was just me in that space. That was when the attachment deepened.

Because that room saw me alone. Truly alone. No family. No roommate. Just me figuring life out day by day. I learned how to sit with my own thoughts. How to calm myself down after a hard day. How to motivate myself when no one was physically available to do it for me.

It stopped being just a rented room. 

It became mine.

When I first decorated it, I tried to make it look like my room in Kuantan. I placed my things in familiar ways. I was homesick more than I admitted. I wanted something that resembled home so that I wouldn't feel so displaced.

Slowly, it wasn't just a copy of home anymore. It became its own version of home.

It became the place I would return to after long days of classes. The place where I could close the door and not explain myself to anyone. Where I could cry without worrying if my parents would hear. Where I could sit in silence and just think.

That room witnessed my jatuh bangun.

The nights I cried over performances and friendships until I fell asleep.

The days I felt strong, in control, and independent.

The moments my heart broke once or twice within those walls.

The times I questioned myself whether I was doing enough, being enough.

The quiet victories no one else saw.

It held every version of me.

It was also the place of so many first times.

My first time cooking proper actual meals.

My first time buying groceries for myself.

My first time navigating the city by myself.

My first time handling breakfowns without immediately calling home.

My first time realising that I could actually survive on my own when I am away from my family.

There were so many firsts in that house that I didn't even realise I was growing while it was happening.

And outside that room, there was a whole world I didn't realise I would grow attached to.

Almost every Friday, I would walk to the pasar malam just to get my usual taufufa. It became a small ritual, something simple to look forward to after a long week. I can still recall the familiar taste that somehow felt comforting. Because it reminded me a lot of my home in Kuantan.

There were the usual sidewalks I walked on to and from classes. The same route, almost every day (until I started taking Grabs instead of buses). I knew which parts were shaded. Which spots would flood slightly after rain. Which turns felt longer when I was exhausted.

Behind the apartment, there was the KTM railway track. Almost every evening when I didn't have night class, if I felt bored or overwhelmed, I would stand by the kitchen window while cooking dinner and just stare outside. I would watch the sky change colours. The small playground downstairs, where kids played football. Sometimes random people from different block arguing loudly in the distance. And then the sound of the train passing by.

That sound became part of my routine. Part of my quiet.

There was a stray dog I named Goldie because his fur was golden and he looked like a golden retriever. I would see him wandering around the apartment area like he belonged there. I think about him often now. Is he still there? Still alive?

There were the stray cats we used to feed too. I wonder if they are still around.

The grocery store nearby that sold things cheaper every Sunday. The flower shop I randomly stopped by, not even to buy anything most of the time, just to look. Just to pause for a moment.

Did everything continue as usual after I left?

Because when I left, life there didn't pause. The pasar malam still opens on Fridays. The market probably still sells cheaper groceries on Sundays. The flower shop still arranges new bouquets. The train still passes every evening. Goldie probably still walks around like nothing changed.

But it's been a year since I left.

I am no longer part of that scenery.

On the night I moved out, I carried my belongings down bit by bit. Clothes, books, decorations. Removing everything that once made the room feel alive. When everything was already in the car, I went back upstairs one last time. 

The room was empty. Except for the wardrobe I left behind for whoever comes after me.

No bed on the floor. No bookshelves. No decorations on the wall. No familiar mess. No warmth. Just plain walls, silence and darkness.

It didn't look like my room anymore.

And that was when it hurt.

But honestly, I didn't cry as much that night as I did later in the car on my way back to Kuantan after my convocation day in November 2025. That, was tragic. Because I knew, that was the real closure.

Now I am here in Kuantan, back for good. I have my own room here. I always did. But whenever life feels overwhelming at home, whenever I feel misunderstood or tired, I miss that room in Shah Alam deeply.

Not because life there was easier. It wasn't.

Or maybe it was.

But because that room represented a version of me who was figuring life out on her own. A version of me who had the space to break down privately and build herself back up quietly.

I found myself there.

I lost myself there.

And I found myself again.

That may be why it feels heavy.

Because sometimes I don't just miss a place.

I miss the routines.

The sounds.

The small rituals.

The version of myself that only existed there.

And maybe that's what makes it unforgettable.

Love, 23.02.2026 Nadhirah Rizal⋆

the usual sidewalk

I took this picture when I got back home after evening class, cuz it felt nostalgic at that time

my study table's state, in my very last weeks before I moved out ;')

sunrise from the bus stop :>

again, cuz it felt nostalgic. this is the window at the kitchen (I was cooking dinner when I captured this)

straight view from the kitchen window (where we can see the train passing by)

the upstairs neighbour's cat that sneaked into my room through my room's window when I took a nap (the owner told me the name is Meimei)

another sunset picture from my level <3

sunset captured on my way walking to pasar malam

my very first time taking a train, and all by myself

my favourite stray cat that I always feed. he loves my sardines.

the name is Oyen Pu, full name is Oyen Pudar (I named him oyen pudar cuz my housemate and I used to foster the other Oyen, yang pekat colour dia haha)

one of a few sweet treats when I have a rough day :>

*additional* this is Panda, my sleeping partner :P

P.S. There are more memories I keep close to my heart, these are just the ones I can share here :)