Saturday morning found them in the cream-toned sanctuary of Kian's apartment.

The logistics had been settled the night before, a flurry of notifications lighting up Reyhaan's phone just past ten. He had been sprawled on his own couch, rain tapping a syncopated rhythm against the glass, half-watching an old short film on mute. Aria had messaged first, asking about the bookstore. The suggestion made him smile; he could picture the space easily—the scent of spiced paper, the worn-in calm, and Aria, looking like she had been curated to match the shelves.

Maya, however, had countered immediately: I need somewhere I can sprawl like a Victorian ghost. Not a straight-backed chair in sight.

On instinct, Reyhaan had offered his place. It was quiet, spacious, and his parents were used to the ebb and flow of creative chaos. The idea of work in the stillness of home felt... right. Comforting, maybe.

But Aria had declined with polite firmness, worried about causing havoc, and Maya had joked about having his "friend privileges" revoked by his family. He'd laughed, letting it go. If they weren't comfortable, that was the only metric that mattered.

That's when Maya chimed in again, saying Kian had offered his apartment, attaching a list of demands regarding his cat, Tuffy.

She accepts compliments and tuna, Aria had typed.

And so, here they were.

Kian's place was a study in textured creams and dark furniture, the open layout flooding with light that bounced off enough indoor plants to mimic a greenhouse. A lemon tree thrived inexplicably in the corner. It felt like a space where ideas could drift without hitting a wall.

Reyhaan dropped his bag near the couch, setting down the fruit smoothies he'd picked up—mango and berry, no sugar—on the coffee table. He stretched his legs, the stiffness in his back easing.

Maya was already half-curled on the rug, dressed in a green knit sweater layered over a white shirt and comfortably loose black trousers. She looked like she'd been here forever. Her hair was swept up in a massive claw clip and was surrounded by three different chip packets and a jar of chili pickle for reasons she'd yet to explain.

The door clicked open a moment later. Aria stepped in, hair a little windswept from the walk; a few strands stuck to the rim of her glasses. She shrugged off her navy-blue jacket and slipped off her boots at the door.

"These are still warm," she said by way of greeting, setting a box on the table.

Maya beamed, unsealing the lid. "You baked! Reyhaan, you've been warned. Her baking is lethal."

He raised an eyebrow but reached for one. The blend of spice and sweetness burst on his tongue, warm and complex. It caught him off guard—not just the taste, but the domesticity of it.

"Better than half the cafes I've been to," he said, wiping a crumb from his lip.

Aria offered a faint shrug, but the small upward tilt of her lips gave her away. "It's nothing. They're simple."

"They're amazing," Maya mumbled around a mouthful. "Open a bakery. Call it 'Sweet, Silent Death.'"

"Sounds like a crime podcast," Aria noted, settling beside Maya.

"Exactly."

Tuffy, a ginger-and-white blur, made her entrance then. She inspected the snacks with the air of a health inspector, deemed them acceptable, and then, without preamble, launched herself into Reyhaan's lap. She curled up instantly, purring like a small engine.

Maya cackled.

"Is this permission or conquest?" Reyhaan froze, hands hovering over the sudden weight on his knees. "I'm afraid to move."

"She's biased toward handsome men," Aria said mildly, pulling out her notes.

"Cat's got taste," Maya agreed.

Reyhaan slowly lowered his hand, scratching behind Tuffy's ears. She blinked at him—slow, heavy-lidded. "Does this mean I've been accepted?"

"No," Maya said. "It means you've been claimed."

He accepted his fate, resting a hand lightly against the cat's side as the creative session began. They started with the basics, recapping Thursday's lecture and digging into individual research.

Maya went first, still sprawled on the floor with a chip balanced precariously on her knee. "There's this indie short," she said, flicking open her notebook. "The transitions do all the emotional lifting. Barely any dialogue. Just visual rhythm. Cuts like poetry."

Aria nodded slowly from the couch, legs tucked beneath her. The soft pleats of her cream skirt pooled around her as she flipped through her sketchbook. "I found something similar. Less movement, though. It's all interior. Still shots. Mostly silence. But the light keeps changing. It says something without saying anything."

Reyhaan leaned back, careful not to disturb Tuffy. He reached for his tablet. "I've got one framed entirely through reflections. Glass. Mirrors. Car windows." He pulled up a still. "It felt... voyeuristic. Like the characters were only real when they weren't being watched directly."

Aria looked over, curious. "What kind of emotion did that create for you?"

"Disconnection," he said, choosing the word carefully. "But intentional. Like... something was barely holding, and everyone knew it."

She dipped her head, filing the thought away. "And... what did it make you feel?"

He hesitated. The image on the screen was sharp, cold. "Like I was watching something fracture in real time. Invisible, but real."

Maya sighed, flopping onto her back. "Why are we all so deep this morning?"

"Speak for yourself," Reyhaan murmured, sipping his smoothie. "You brought chips and a pickle to a film theory meeting."

"I'm grounding us in chaos."

Tuffy meowed loudly at that, as if weighing in.

"Agreement," Aria deadpanned.

Laughter rippled through the room, easy and unforced.

Reyhaan watched them—Maya owning the floor space, Aria quiet and focused, pushing her glasses up. They had a rhythm, a counterpoint of energy and stillness that clicked. It reminded him of his bandmates—that shorthand that came from time, from knowing the shape of each other's silence.

And now, here he was. Trying to find a footing again.

It had been a long time since he'd let himself belong to a new group. But this didn't feel like a leap. It felt like... a quiet kind of return.

He'd chosen them on instinct, or maybe desperation for something grounded. And maybe, unknowingly, he'd chosen well.

Here, no one asked him to be the old Reyhaan. They gave him space—not the kind that left you isolated, but the kind that let you unfold.

At some point, Aria rose to refill drinks, Maya trailing her with complaints about needing a cold floor. Reyhaan stayed behind, alone with the cat and the afternoon light stretching across the floorboards like spilled gold. Outside, faint piano notes drifted from a neighbor's window—spaced out, thoughtful.

When the girls returned, Maya dropped onto the couch like a stone. "This project is cursed. I say we abandon art and open a convenience store."

"We haven't even picked a scene," Aria pointed out gently.

"Exactly. There is no scene. Just us, spiraling."

Reyhaan sat up straighter, disturbing Tuffy's slumber. "Maybe we're overthinking it. What if we stop looking for something grand?"

Aria tilted her head. "You mean a small moment?"

"Yeah. Grounded. Not flashy. Just... true."

Maya frowned pensively, a chip halfway to her mouth. "Like that café scene you showed me? The one with the girl writing a letter she never sends?"

"Exactly," Reyhaan nodded. "The mood carried it. The pauses. The pacing. Nothing dramatic happened, but everything shifted."

Aria nodded, slow and considerate. "Small emotional architecture."

They fell quiet. Just the rustle of papers, distant city noise, and Tuffy purring like she'd solved the plot hours ago. The discussion set in motion again—soft and certain, like sunlight shifting on the floor.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They didn't crack the code that day.

Instead, the afternoon settled around them, lazy and sunlit, cluttered with notebooks and cookie crumbs.

Kian, who had eventually wandered in, wearing gym sweats and a hoodie slung halfway around his shoulders, now dozed briefly with a pillow wedged behind his head, snoring just loud enough to be mocked later. Reyhaan snapped a photo and sent it to the group chat with the caption: Our first audience. We must be doing great.

A secret laugh bubbled between them, but after that, they mostly sank into a comfortable hush. Background music shifted to lo-fi jazz, buzzing faintly through the speaker.

Aria was sketching on the rug, glasses pushed up into her hair. Reyhaan's gaze lingered on her hand as it moved. She wasn't drawing storyboards anymore. She was drawing shapes in the margins. A figure by a window. A cat.

She dipped her head thoughtfully, and he found himself wondering—not for the first time—what kind of stories lived in her silences.

He liked that her quietness didn't demand space but shaped it all the same. The kind of presence you only noticed when it had already settled deep.

"So..." Maya drawled, stretching out on the floor. "Are we circling anything useful, or just vibing with snacks?"

"Pre-chaos," Aria hummed without looking up. "With snacks."

"Which is different from yesterday's structure," Reyhaan added with a smirk.

"I'll allow it."

"You know," Kian murmured from the armchair, eyes still closed, "I can't tell if this is how masterpieces are born or group projects die."

"Bit of both," Reyhaan offered.

A pause followed. The mood was unhurried, like they were waiting for a clock that wasn't ticking.

Eventually, Maya rolled over, staring up at the ceiling. "Let's call it. We're not picking a scene today."

"No," Aria agreed. "We're not forcing it."

Kian blinked one eye open. "You guys are way too poetic about not doing your homework."

"But with style," Reyhaan said, standing to stretch. "Always with style."

Tuffy huffed a protest and leapt off his lap in a blur of dignified offense. Reyhaan bent to scratch her ears by way of apology. "She's gonna be the scene-stealer if we ever shoot here."

"She's union," Kian yawned. "Demands top billing."

Maya gathered her things with slow, deliberate movements. "Okay. I'm going home and pretend I'll work tonight. Aria, walk with me?"

"Sure." Aria folded her sketchpad, tucking her pencil behind her ear. She glanced at Reyhaan, eyes soft but unreadable. "You staying?"

"Yeah. I'll help Kian clean up."

"Nice." She smiled faintly, pushing her glasses back into place. "See you Monday?"

"See you."

As the door clicked shut behind them, the apartment shifted. The air felt a little thinner, the light a little dimmer.

Kian stood, stretching, and wandered into the kitchen. "You good?"

Reyhaan leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "Yeah. Good day."

"They like you, by the way." Kian turned on the tap.

"Yeah," Reyhaan said, softer now. "Feels like they don't expect me to be someone else."

Kian chuckled, tossing him a dish towel. "Come on, superstar. Help me restore my apartment before I forget I ever offered it to Maya on purpose."

They moved through the clean-up in easy silence. As Reyhaan wiped down the table, tucking away stray wrappers, a part of him lingered on the image of Aria sketching. Not the storyboard, but the margins. A window. A lap. A cat.

They hadn't picked a scene yet. But something was beginning to form

Not loud. Not perfect.

But maybe, finally, something that could last.