Saturday morning found them at Kian's apartment.

The night before, their group chat had sprung to life just past ten, when Aria had typed: Are we meeting at the bookstore again? Or trying a new place?

Reyhaan had been lying on the couch, as the rain tapped gently against his bedroom window, half-watching an old short film on mute and sipping something vaguely berry-flavored. Her message had made him smile.

He had found himself thinking about the bookstore. Not the crowd it had drawn or the shy glances from students, but the space itself. How it smelled faintly of spiced paper and old wood. It had a worn-in kind of calm—like it had been lived in, breathed in. Even the silence there felt full, not empty.

And Aria, in that space, seemed like part of it. Like she belonged to it in a way none of them quite did.

Maya had replied within seconds, as if she’d been waiting: I need somewhere I can sprawl like a Victorian ghost. Not a straight-backed chair in sight, please.

Reyhaan had chuckled and thumbed in a response: My place is free. Plenty of space. Quiet too.

It wasn’t a calculated offer. Just instinct. The house was calm, his parents rarely interfered, and something about the idea of creative work in the stillness of home felt… right. Comforting, maybe.

But Aria had responded with a polite firmness: We’d cause too much havoc. Don’t want your parents to think you hang out with chaotic people.

Maya chimed in a second later: Yeah, they’d revoke your friend privileges.

He’d laughed out loud this time, his phone tipping sideways against the blanket. He wrote: You seriously overestimate how easily they’re fazed. But he didn’t push. If they weren’t comfortable, that mattered more.

That’s when Maya chimed in again, with her usual blend of drama and resourcefulness: Kian says we can crash at his place while he’s at basketball. His only requests: Don’t wreck anything, feed Tuffy, and show her proper reverence.

Reyhaan had stared at the screen for a beat before typing back: I assume Tuffy gets her own throne and regular praise offerings?

Hourly, Aria replied. She accepts compliments and tuna.

And just like that, the plan was sealed.

So, here they were.

Kian’s apartment was all cream tones, accented with dark furniture and soft textured rugs. The open layout let light flood through, bouncing off indoor plants that made the whole place feel quietly alive. A small TV sat above a wooden console in the sitting area, an open kitchen to its right, with a short hallway leading off to Kian’s room. A narrow balcony edged the left wall, the curtains pulled open to let the light spill in. Potted plants peeked from shelves and windowsills. A lemon tree, oddly thriving in the corner. It felt like the kind of place where ideas might wander freely.

Reyhaan dropped his bag near the couch and set down the fruit smoothies he’d picked up—mango and berry, no added sugar—on the coffee table. He stretched his legs out and let the quiet wrap around him.

Maya was already half-curled on the rug, dressed in a green knit sweater layered over a white shirt and comfortably loose black trousers. 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. She looked like she’d been here forever.

Aria arrived ten minutes later with a box tucked under her arm, her 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 as a way of greeting, setting the box on the table.

“You baked!” Maya beamed as she unsealed the lid, then turned to Reyhaan. “Her baking is incredible. You’ve been warned.”

He raised an eyebrow, but picked one up. As he took a bite, the warm blend of spice and sweetness burst on his tongue, catching him pleasantly off guard. “Not gonna lie, this is better than half the cafes I've been to.”

Aria offered a faint shrug, but he caught the small upward tilt of her lips. “It’s nothing. They’re just simple.”

“They’re amazing,” Maya added, mouth already full. “You should open a bakery. Like, right now. Call it ‘Sweet, Silent Death.’”

Aria gave a small smile. “That... actually sounds like a crime podcast.”

Maya grinned. “Exactly.”

Tuffy, Kian’s ginger-and-white cat, made her grand entrance a few minutes after that, slipping into the living room with all the poise of a feline judge about to deliver her verdict. She inspected the snacks—twice. Inspected them. Then, with no warning, leapt into Reyhaan’s lap and curled up in his lap like she’d collected a prize. Maya cackled.

“Is this permission or conquest?” Reyhaan asked, frozen.

"She’s biased to handsome men," Aria replied mildly, as she settled beside Maya and pulled out her notes.

Maya snorted. “Cat’s got taste. That’s all I’m saying.”

Reyhaan let the cat settle, then scratched behind her ears, brushing a bit of fur from her neck. She blinked at him once, slowly. “Does this mean I’ve been accepted?”

“No,” Maya said. “It means you’ve been claimed.”

He acknowledged the judgment, lightly resting his hand near Tuffy’s side as she purred.

And then, the creative session began, starting with the basics. Recapping what they'd discussed the day before, digging into individual research. Each of them had brought a few scenes they found interesting.

Maya, still sprawled on the floor with a chip balanced precariously on her knee, was the first to share. She flicked open her notebook and pointed to a scribbled list of scene ideas. “There’s this indie short where the transitions do all the emotional lifting. Barely any dialogue. Just visual rhythm. Cuts like poetry.”

Aria nodded slowly beside her on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, the soft pleats of her cream accordion skirt pooling gently around her as she flipped to a page in 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 as he reached for his tablet, balanced on the armrest next to him. “I’ve got one that’s framed entirely through reflections. Glass. Mirrors. Car windows. It felt... voyeuristic. Like the characters were only real when they weren’t being watched directly.”

Aria looked over at him, curious. “What kind of emotion did that create for you?”

“Disconnection,” he said, slower this time. “But intentional. Like… something was barely holding—and everyone knew it.”

She dipped her head thoughtfully, like she was filing the emotion away, linking it to a scene, a memory, or something only she knew how to carry. “And… what did it make you feel, watching it like that?”

He hesitated slightly before answering, “Like… I was watching something fracture in real time. Something almost 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.”

“Exactly,” she declared, eyes closing. “I’m grounding us in chaos.”

Tuffy meowed loudly at that, as if weighing in.

“I think that’s agreement,” Aria deadpanned.

They chuckled. It was laughter without performance.

Reyhaan glanced between them—Maya sprawled like she owned the room, Aria quiet and focused, pushing her glasses back up. They had their own rhythm. Maya encouraged where Aria hesitated. Aria steadied where Maya scattered. They clicked. It reminded him of his bandmates—how their ease came from time, from knowing each other’s silences as well as their noise.

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

It had been a long time since he’d let himself belong to something new. But this didn’t feel like a leap. Just… a quiet kind of return.

He’d chosen Aria and Maya on instinct. Because they were familiar faces. Because they listened more than they spoke. And maybe, unknowingly, he’d chosen well.

Maybe here, he didn’t need to explain the quiet. Maybe here, no one was asking him to be old Reyhaan.

Especially not Aria.

They gave him space—not the kind that left you alone, but the kind that made room for you to unfold.

At some point, Aria rose to refill their glasses, and Maya trailed after her, mumbling something about needing a cold drink and a cold floor.

Reyhaan stayed behind, alone with the cat and a page of half-sketched visual beats. The late afternoon light stretched across the floor like spilled gold. Outside the window, someone in a nearby apartment was playing soft piano. Not a melody. Just notes, spaced out like thoughts.

When Aria and Maya returned with drinks and a restocked bowl of chips, Maya dropped onto the couch like a shot soldier. “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 my point,” Maya cried, gesturing wildly. “There is no scene. Just us, spiraling gently into chaos.”

“You know, I guess we’re overthinking it,” Reyhaan said, sitting up straighter. “What if we stop looking for something grand and go back to what we feel drawn to?”

Aria tilted her head. “You mean like... a small moment?”

“Yeah. Something 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. The way nothing dramatic happened, but everything shifted.”

Aria nodded, slow and considerate. “Small emotional architecture.”

They were quiet for a while after that. Just the soft rustling of papers. Distant city noise through the open balcony door. And Tuffy, purring like she’d solved it all first.

And once again, the discussion set in motion—soft and certain, like sunlight shifting on the floor.