The buzz of the classroom lights mingled with the scratch of a marker. Professor Meijer stepped back from the whiteboard, capping the pen with a firm click. His words trailed off in bold, purposeful strokes—arrows, underlines, symbols—framing the day's final point.

Reyhaan leaned back in his seat, arms loosely crossed. Around him, a collective sigh of student disappointment rippled through the room. It was the last class of Thursday, originally meant for Film Club—a casual slot under Professor Cleo—but Meijer had taken over. The vibe had shifted from relaxation to resignation.

Film Club meant fun discussions, screenings, and maybe even skipping out a little early. Meijer meant theory, structure, and the firm sound of marker caps clicking into place.

"I want you all to form groups of three," Meijer announced. "Pick a short scene—fiction or documentary, doesn't matter."

Reyhaan tapped his fingers softly against his desk, gaze trailing over the diagrams on the board. Clean lines. Angles. Emotion measured like geometry—all form, no mess.

"Break it down visually," Meijer continued, turning toward the board with a sharp gesture. "Not just what's happening on screen, but how and why. Shot choices, tone, timing. What does the camera feel? What does it withhold?"

A low murmur began to rise—intrigued whispers about potential partners mixing with complaints about the lost free hour.

"Think of it," Meijer said, his mouth twitching into the faintest smile, "as storyboarding feelings. You're directing the heartbeat beneath it."

A few students straightened. The professor closed the marker box. "You've got a week. Choose wisely. And remember—clarity doesn't mean simplicity."

Then, just like that, he stepped out, leaving behind the faint scent of whiteboard ink and the shuffle of delayed relief. Chairs scraped against the floor, zippers tugged open, phones lit up. The room exhaled.

Reyhaan remained seated, letting the bustle pass around him. People were already pairing off. A few glanced his way—not long stares, just that subtle, charged curiosity. A couple of students looked almost expectantly, but no one walked over. He heard the whispers—"soundscape genius," "he probably hears film like music."

He didn't fault them. He might've said the same. But it tugged at something in him—a reminder of the reaching, the performing, the expectations. The old Reyhaan would have walked over to every table, cracking jokes, networking without meaning to.

Now, he didn't want that.

Not yet.

Still, he didn't feel like choosing randomly.

He wanted someone grounded. Someone familiar.

His eyes landed on Aria and Maya.

They sat near the windows, a little apart from the chatter, like they'd carved out a corner for themselves. He'd noticed them over the past week. Always present, but in a way that didn't ask for attention. They seemed attuned to the undercurrent rather than the volume.

He could go solo. It wouldn't be a disaster. But looking at them—Maya's silver hoops shifting as she talked, Aria's thoughtful nod—he realized he didn't want solo. Not today.

He stood, took his notes, and walked over.

"Hey," he said, knocking lightly on their table, keeping his tone deliberately casual. "So... are you two accepting applications for your group, or is it strictly invite-only?"

Maya zipped her bag with a grin. "Depends. Are you good with deadlines, or just mysterious and talented with questionable sleep schedules?"

"Bit of both, I hope," he replied, matching her tempo. He turned to Aria. "I figured I owed you both an actual hello after accidentally hijacking that discussion last week."

Aria looked up, tucking her pen into a fabric pouch. "You didn't hijack anything," she assured him. Her smile was quiet, but genuine. "It was... nice. What you said."

"You mean the headphone scene?"

She nodded, standing as the strap of her bag slid gently off her shoulder. "It stayed with me. I hadn't thought about it like that before."

She hesitated before saying it—just a second too long. Like she was checking her thoughts before they left her mouth, editing the signal before transmission.

Not unsure. Just cautious.

He knew that feeling. Too well.

Reyhaan's expression softened. "And you made me rethink how I look at silence. So... fair trade."

A quiet understanding passed between them, unspoken but present. Aria gave a small nod. With a shared glance, they began the walk down the hallway together, the low chatter of students trailing behind.

Maya gave a mock sigh as they turned a corner. "Look at you two. Exchanging emotional damage like Pokémon cards. Can we please have a chill group dynamic?"

Reyhaan let out a small laugh. "Absolutely. I promise not to quote sad indie lyrics during brainstorming."

"Great," Maya said, slinging her bag over one shoulder. She unscrewed her water canteen mid-step, gave it a hopeful shake, then frowned. "Cool. Betrayed by hydration again." She held it up like a defeated warrior. "Cafeteria run?"

"Only if the coffee's strong enough to power our collective delusions," Reyhaan offered.

Aria chuckled. "Or at least cold enough water to revive Maya's trust in the universe."

They veered toward the stairs, falling into a rhythm without trying.

"So," Reyhaan asked, "what's the next class we all share?"

Maya groaned. "Podcast Narration. Tomorrow morning. Which you skipped last week, by the way."

"Had a prior appointment," he replied, hands lifted in mock defense. "Did I miss something important?"

"You missed Thomas reading his horror script in a whispery Dracula voice for ten whole minutes," Maya said. "We all sat there like hostages."

Aria shuddered slightly at the memory, face twisting into a soft cringe. "It was... memorable. I can still hear the voice in my head. It haunts my dreams."

Reyhaan caught the pause again. Aria wasn't nervous—she was thoughtful. Choosing her words with care, as though language was something precious, not to be wasted.

He winced, amused. "I regret everything."

Maya shot him a dramatic look. "You should. We needed emotional support." Then a moment later, mumbled something incoherent, which earned her a pinch from Aria.

"Don't worry," Aria said, glancing at him with a smile. "You'll get your chance to redeem yourself tomorrow."

Reyhaan smiled back, the kind that reached his eyes. "Looking forward to it. Whispery Dracula voice and all."

Aria gave him a look—amused, a little sly—like she knew exactly what she was doing. "Fair trade."

His smile lingered as they turned the stairwell. She remembered his words. And said them back with ease. Not as a fan. Not as a moment. Just... as someone who'd been listening. He laughed under his breath.

"You know," Maya said, glancing sideways at him as they descended. "I think people are finally starting to get used to you being here."

Reyhaan arched a brow. "What do you mean?"

She waved a hand vaguely behind them. "No one jumped over desks to ask you to be in their group. No one tried to make it a moment. You just walked over, and we said yes. That's how it should be."

Aria nodded; her voice soft but certain. "You chose who you wanted to work with. Not the other way around."

He let that sit with him. It hadn't fully clicked until they said it, but they were right. For once, his name hadn't chosen for him.

That subtle shift—of being seen, not claimed—felt oddly significant.

They were almost at the cafeteria doors when a voice called out: "Maya! Thought you were meeting me ten minutes ago!"

A tall guy jogged over, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, basketball tee half-tucked, hair slightly between effort and chaos. He moved with the relaxed confidence of someone who didn't have to try hard to be liked. A tote bag swung from his shoulder, which said 'Books. Ball. Balance.'

Maya groaned, but she didn't stop smiling. "Speak of the human delay himself." She turned slightly. "This is Kian. My boyfriend. Allegedly."

Kian offered a fist bump, grinning. "New face. Music program?"

"Film," Reyhaan replied, bumping knuckles. "Well—Film and Media. Just started last week."

"Ah," Kian nodded sagely. "Fresh meat. Good luck decoding the editing suite. The left monitor has commitment issues."

Aria stifled a laugh beside him. "Kian moonlights as our tech whisperer. When he's not being accidentally popular."

"I'm only popular with professors who think basketball is a metaphor for narrative tension," Kian deadpanned.

Reyhaan smirked. "That... actually sounds like something I'd watch."

Maya looped her arm through Kian's. "He's full of nonsense. But very persuasive. Like a rom-com character who wandered out of a physics lab."

"Still more reliable than half the guys in Literature," Aria murmured.

Kian laughed. "I'll take that as high praise."

Inside the café, sunlight spilled through the tall glass wall, washing the space in a warm, late-afternoon hush. They queued up, ordered drinks, then slid into seats by the window where the light caught their mugs like props in a scene.

Reyhaan let himself sink into it. The layered sounds of spoons clinking, laughter drifting from the next table, Maya's voice launching into a dramatic retelling of something that definitely hadn't happened that dramatically. Kian added punchlines like well-timed percussion.

Aria filled in the gaps. Sometimes with a look, sometimes with a line that shifted the mood sideways into something gentler. Even then, Reyhaan noticed the way she paused before speaking, running her words through a filter first. Not withholding—just careful.

Then she said something dry and deadpan in response to one of Maya's exaggerations—something about the story being eligible for an award in "Selective Fiction." Her timing was perfect.

Reyhaan blinked in surprise—then smiled. There you are, he thought.

It was like catching a flicker of something hidden but real. Not performative. Just her. It wasn't loud. But it was full.

For the first time in a long time, Reyhaan didn't feel like he was watching a scene from the outside, trying to memorize it before it passed. He felt like he was part of it. Not as a name. Not as a brand.

Just... himself.