Thursday – First Class.

Their slot came mid-morning.

Professor Meijer, sharp-eyed and half-dressed in tweed, stood by the whiteboard while the three of them set up. Aria connected the tablet, Maya straightened the storyboard pages, and Reyhaan queued the audio clips on his laptop. He watched their rhythm—quiet, familiar now, built over hours of friction and figuring it out.

Aria began the presentation with the visual arc, her voice steady as she explained how they'd used lighting as emotional subtext, swiping through the slides with practiced ease. Maya took over, diving into the framing and character blocking with a theatrical confidence. Then came his part.

He let the sound clip run—a soft, ambient mix. A fridge whirr. Distant traffic. A spoon tapping on ceramic. Nothing flashy. Just the quiet sound that filled the gaps between people.

This was his first creative pitch in years, shared without the armor of his band's spotlight or his usual cadence. No stage, just an idea he believed in.

The room went still.

When they finished, the silence that followed felt considered.

Meijer nodded slowly, then offered a small, rare smile. "There's restraint here," he said, arms crossed. "Which is rare in student work. You didn't overreach. You chose the scene you could serve."

Reyhaan caught Aria's soft nod as she scribbled something into her page. Maya exhaled beside him, releasing a breath she hadn't known she was holding. Reyhaan felt a weight shift in his chest—a quiet, present relief. That was the kind of praise that didn't ask for applause.

Meijer offered a few notes—comments on timing, a suggestion for a delayed sound cue. Then: "For your semester-end assignment, take this a step further. Same group. But now, you shoot the scene."

A murmur rippled through the class. Reyhaan saw Maya raise an eyebrow with mock horror, while Aria's pen was already in motion.

"Use what you've built," Meijer said. "Refine. Rehearse. Make it real."

And just like that, the next phase began.

Lunch that day was at one of the tables outside the university café, the last warmth of late summer still holding. Kian joined them, dropping into the chair beside Maya and stealing one of her fries without asking. He wore his usual too-big hoodie and had a basketball tucked under one arm.

"Hope I'm not crashing anything profound," he said, brushing sweat-slick curls from his forehead.

"Only our cinematic revolution," Maya replied instantly.

"You'd be honored to witness it," Aria added, her tone dry, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Heard Meijer actually complimented someone today," Kian said around a mouthful. "Did the apocalypse start, and I just missed it?"

Maya threw a napkin at him. "We were brilliant. Obviously."

Reyhaan leaned back, watching the pattern fall into place. The familiar rhythm—the unspoken ease, the jokes landing without need for translation—felt like emotional muscle memory, a comfortable echo of his band dynamic, yet distinctly calmer.

As they recapped the class, Kian followed along with an easy nod. When Reyhaan mentioned ambient sound, Kian raised a brow. "Use reflections too—like in glass or steel. Lets you echo emotion without dialogue."

Maya blinked. "When did you become the poetic one?"

"This is what happens when your girlfriend drags you to film screenings every other Friday."

"No regrets," Maya replied, bumping his knee under the table.

Across from them, Aria tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she scribbled something in her notes. She looked thoughtful, and comfortable.

Reyhaan smiled faintly and turned back to Kian. "You should join our next pitch session. Tuffy already thinks she runs the place."

"She does," Kian shrugged. "I just pay rent."

They laughed. The moment felt easy, like something earned.

The rest of lunch passed in project ideas and teasing. Maya lobbied hard for the group name Scene Stealers. Kian tried to convince them to let him cameo. Aria argued for clean font choices on the slides. Reyhaan barely said much, content to watch it all take shape.

A group. A real one.

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That night, after dinner, Reyhaan sat on the edge of his bed with the soft hum of the city pressing faintly against the windowpanes. The room was dim, the desk lamp throwing a warm circle across the rug.

He opened the band chat.

Reyhaan: We got our first project appreciation today. Presentation went well. Real team effort.

The replies came fast, spiraling into noise.

Ilan: That's our boy.

Silas: Told you your film brain was real.

Lucian: You already sound like the quiet one in the team doc. Classic 'serious artist' arc.

Jay: WE WANT VIDEO.

By the time Reyhaan could type a reply, Jay had started a video call.

He laughed, leaned back, and propped the phone on a pillow. Four faces filled the screen, all mid-chaos.

Reyhaan caught quick glimpse as the screen adjusted—Lucian in what looked like a dim studio space, fairy lights tangled above his head; Silas on a rooftop, hoodie pulled up, wind catching his curls as he waved at the camera; Jay sprawled across a beanbag, an open bag of chips balanced dangerously on his chest; and Ilan, of course, framed in perfect lightning, seated at a desk so neat it felt staged.

"—Are you surviving?" "—Is the food any good?" "—When's the doc coming out?" "—He looks tired, someone tell him to sleep!"

"I was fine before this call," Reyhaan said, amused.

"Lies," Jay pointed. "You texted at 11:47 PM. That's tired man behavior."

Silas leaned in. "How's the group? Pulling their weight?"

"They're solid," Reyhaan said, honest and warm. "One's already making storyboards. The other made a full-on color theory slide. I'm the least prepared one."

A brief pause.

"Liar," Lucian muttered.

"Designer and storyboarding?" Jay leaned in dramatically. "Hold up. Are these both girls?"

Reyhaan didn't answer fast enough.

"Aha," Ilan grinned. "So, the bookstore girl is real."

Reyhaan dodged smoothly. "I said nothing. You're projecting."

"Which means yes," Silas said, smug.

"You're impossible," Reyhaan said, fighting a smile. "Why did I even text?"

"To humble you," Lucian answered. "And to ask: therapy?"

The mood softened a little.

Reyhaan nodded. "Yeah. Still early. Once a week. It's going alright."

None of them pushed, simply nodding in their own way.

"Good," Ilan said simply.

The conversation wandered from there—inside jokes, weird dreams, a meme recreation Jay was trying to stage. Reyhaan watched them talk, the phone screen warm in the low light. He loved the band's easy noise, their familiar shorthand. But in the quiet he had chosen now, something new was taking root—a stillness that didn't just echo the past, but held the present.

"I'll visit once the sem's done," Lucian said. "You better cook."

"Why do you assume I'll cook?"

"Because I know your mother raised you right."

That got a laugh. And then, as the call winded down, one by one they dropped off with waves and promises to text again soon.

He was still holding the phone when a gentle knock came at his door. His mother peeked in, her eyes warm. "All done?"

He nodded, placing the phone on the nightstand. She stepped in, holding a folded blanket in her arms. "You've always worked hard," she said, placing it near the foot of the bed. "But now... you're glowing. Not just pushing. Growing."

Reyhaan gave a quiet, crooked smile. "Am I?"

She nodded. Sitting beside him on the edge of the bed, she let the hush of the room settle around them.

"I like seeing you like this," she admitted finally. "Even when you're tired. This pace. This focus—it suits you."

"I was scared it wouldn't," Reyhaan confessed.

"But you still chose it," she said. "That means something."

He nodded again, slower this time.

"You don't have to be loud to matter," she added, gently brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "You already are."

They sat like that, without grand declarations. Just warmth. And the quiet certainty of being seen.