By the time they joined everyone else in the lecture hall, Professor de Boer was already starting the welcome speech.

His tweed blazer looked the same as last semester. So did the half-sincere smile.

Words floated by: curiosity, discovery, community.

Aria let them pass as she moved quietly between rows, helping students find their sections, handing out one last misplaced kit, smoothing over confusion with a practiced nod.

She didn’t look for Reyhaan.

But she felt the buzz—the whispers that hovered just beneath polite silence, the not-so-subtle glances aimed a little too long at one corner of the room.

And beneath it all, a small tug she refused to name.

Everything blurred after the speech—schedules handed out, fresher kits distributed, clusters of introductions rising like bubbles and bursting midair. Faces, names, questions. Laughter from people who hadn’t yet learned each other’s edges.

Once Aria stepped into Storytelling in Global Cinema classroom—her clipboard replaced with her laptop and a notebook—it was already afternoon.

Her shoulders ached. Her brain hummed.

But the rhythm was familiar now. Safe.

Then she saw him.

Again.

Reyhaan had taken the window seat, already settled before anyone else.

His posture was relaxed but closed in on itself—one leg long, one bent, attention somewhere she couldn’t see. Light gathered at his shoes. He flipped through the syllabus without reading, and an unused earbud hung against his collar like he’d forgotten it was there.

He hadn’t come early by accident. He looked like someone who came for the quiet, not the class. As if the stillness had called him before anyone else arrived.

Aria slowed. Her eyes landed on him for a second too long before she blinked away and veered towards a safe zone. Her usual seat—third row aisle—suddenly made too much sense.

Not too near, not too far.

A moment later, the seat beside her dipped, marked instantly by the familiar hint of peach lip balm.

“You didn’t think I’d let you sit through this alone, right?” Maya said, shrugging off her jacket.

Aria let a slight smile surface as she flipped through her half-filled notebook. Highlights, post-its, and scattered scribbles layered the pages—along with a few quieter uncertainties.

“Also, you’re welcome for the front row view of our guest star,” Maya added, doodling on the syllabus. “And moral support. Obviously.”

Aria rolled her eyes. “It’s a graded class, Maya.”

“I’m here for the emotional depth… and maybe a handsome distraction.”

The classroom filled slowly. A shuffling mix of old students, new ones, and the click of pens.

Then, a single sharp clap sounded, and the professor—a stern-looking woman in tweed with shock-white curls and sneakers—spoke with surprising energy.

“I’m Professor Cleo, and I’ll be taking this class for the semester. But, before we get buried in theory, let’s begin with something simple—and fun.” She scanned the room with warm intensity. “Not your names—those I’ll remember in due time. Let’s start where stories begin—with feeling. This course is about how stories travel. What they carry. What they change.”

She reached for a marker and turned to the whiteboard. Her handwriting was quick, slightly slanted, purposeful: Why do certain films linger?

She capped the marker with a soft click.

“I want each of you to name a film from outside your own culture that stayed with you,” she said, voice firm but not unfriendly. “And tell us why. Doesn’t have to be fancy. Just real.”

The class hesitated—a rustle of pages, a few glances exchanged.

Aria’s fingers hovered over her notebook. She liked the question. It was the kind that didn’t ask for the right answer, just the true one.

Responses trickled in: Parasite. Pan’s Labyrinth. The Lunchbox.

Professor Cleo smiled—small, approving.

“Good. Cross-cultural doesn’t mean alien. It means unfamiliar enough to teach you something.”

Aria glanced sideways. Maya’s brow was slightly furrowed, the end of her pen tapping thoughtfully against her lip.

Reyhaan—three rows ahead—remained still, elbow propped, his gaze steady on the board. Her mind flicked back to his expression outside—that muted kind of stillness—and she wondered what film might have left a mark on someone who’d been inside stories most of his life.

She didn’t linger on it long. The professor was already scanning the room again.

“Who’s next?” Professor Cleo asked, uncapping the marker like a challenge. “Surprise me.”

Aria raised her hand—not too high, just enough.

“Little Forest. A Korean film,” she said, her voice even. “It’s about a woman returning home after things fall apart in the city. Starting over, even if she didn’t know what came next. She cooks, tends to the garden, slows down. Nothing ‘big’ happens. But it made me want to breathe slower.”

The room quieted for a moment. Even Maya, who’d been scribbling something on a torn page, looked up.

Professor Cleo tilted her head, considering. “That’s exactly what we’ll be looking at. Not just what stories say, but how they make us feel. Lovely choice.”

Aria gave a small nod and lowered her hand; fingers lightly grazed the edge of her notebook.

Then, just a few seconds after, Rayhaan leaned forward. Arms folded lightly. His voice calm, almost reflective.

“Begin Again,” he said. “There’s this moment where two people share a song through split headphones. That part stuck. No flash. Just… music, the city, and a connection that didn’t need words. It felt—” he paused, choosing the right shape for the thought “—like someone reaching out when you’re loneliest.”

Aria felt the words settle inside her. Not for what he said. But how he said it.

Her gaze drifted before she could stop. And when her eyes found his, he was already looking with the kind of recognition that doesn’t ask for explanation.

No words were exchanged. Still, something passed between them.

The professor smiled, her admiration flickering between Aria and Reyhaan. “Interesting. Two quiet stories. Same tenderness. Both about healing. That’s the power of global cinema—it lets us find ourselves in unfamiliar mirrors.”

Rayhaan leaned back slightly; his voice soft. “Sometimes music and silence say the same thing.”

There was a brief hush. A few pens scratched across paper. Someone let out a sigh.

The class moved on, but Aria’s mind lingered. She jotted something in the corner of her notebook: It’s strange—meeting someone you admired from a distance, only to realize they’re not larger than life. Just here. Maybe even a little lost. Maybe looking for a way back. Like you once were.

She flipped to the last page of her schedule.

Except for Wednesdays, she and Reyhaan would be in most classes together: Storytelling in Global Cinema, Directing for Screening, Podcast Narrative, and Film Club (unofficial, but necessary).

She stared at the list, her pen lightly tapping the paper.

Maybe silence wasn’t emptiness.

Maybe it was just the beginning.