Sunday mornings in the bookstore possessed a specific gravity—a hush that settled into the corners like dust motes suspended in a shaft of light. Aria wasn't here for her shift today. She was here for herself, for the specific sanctuary of paper and ink.

She drifted through the fiction aisle, fingertips grazing the spines as if acknowledging old friends. Sunlight slanted through the high windows, pooling in golden rectangles across the scuffed wooden floor. The store was nearly empty, a vacuum where thoughts could finally expand without hitting a wall.

Yet, her mind refused to stay on the shelves. It kept drifting back to the week just gone—the project, the presentation, the exhaustion that felt surprisingly like satisfaction. It wasn't just the work; it was the ease of it. An invisible thread had tightened between the three of them—her, Maya, and Reyhaan—pulling Kian into their orbit until the rhythm felt inevitable.

Friendship usually required effort; this felt like breathing. Something about the dynamic had shifted—not in magnitude, just in texture.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, Aria realized she hadn't felt this... part of something in a long while.

She had known connection before—fast, bright sparks that burned out with distance or time. No fallout, just the slow erosion of silence until texts stopped coming. In those gaps, she had often felt like a passenger left on a platform, watching the train of everyone else's lives blur past. Deadlines, office drama, promotions—she didn't resent their movement, but she felt the static weight of her own stillness.

It wasn't just the friendships, though.

You lack direction, her design professors had said, well-meaning but lethal. Your work has feeling, but no focus.

She hadn't had an answer.

For a while after that, she stopped trying altogether. Just existed, letting days loop like a corrupted video file. The weight sat quiet and invisible, but it was always there.

Until books had found her again. Or maybe she had found them.

Until reading turned into surviving, into discovering something for a second time—voices and people who existed only on paper but felt more present than anything else, felt more familiar than the people who used to text her.

And one night, somewhere between the pages of a novel that saw her too clearly, she realized she didn't want to disappear. She wanted to tell stories—not with design, but with the visuals and emotions she carried.

The rest unraveled quietly into motion.

Applying for scholarships had been a secret rebellion. She hadn't told her parents until the acceptance letter was in her hand, terrified that speaking of it would shatter the possibility. She wanted to prove—to them, to herself—that she could handle it. But her father had listened. He had let her go.

That felt like a lifetime ago. But on quiet Sundays like this, the old memory of stagnation sometimes settled around her like a scarf pulled too tight.

Aria blinked, realizing she had stopped walking. She was staring at a gap on the shelf, her thoughts hovering somewhere between a page and the past.

A hand waved gently in her peripheral vision.

"Earth to Aria?"

She startled, air catching in her throat. Reyhaan stood a few feet away, one brow arched, that familiar crooked grin tugging at his mouth. He was dressed down—black hoodie layered under a grey jacket, beanie pulled low over wavy hair. In one hand, he balanced a vinyl record; the other was buried in his coat pocket.

"You okay?" he asked, amusement coloring his tone. "You looked like you were having a mid-morning existential crisis at the biography section."

She blinked again, the present rushing back in. He was watching her—not with the polite indifference of a stranger, but with focus. Like he noticed the drift.

"Sorry," she managed, laughing off the embarrassment. "Just... zoning out."

"Looked intense," he noted, stepping into her personal space with easy grace. "Does that shelf owe you money?"

"Only emotional debt," she deadpanned. "What are you doing here?"

He held up the record—vintage jazz, bold red typography against black. "Looking for bribes. My brother has been dragging his feet on getting to work. I thought vintage Miles Davis might tempt him."

"You thought you'd find jazz in this bookstore?"

He shrugged. "Honestly? I just wanted an excuse to wander in."

The admission drew a soft, unexpected laugh from her. "You could've just said you like the smell of old paper."

"Too cliché," he countered, his gaze shifting to the shelf above her head. "Were you reaching for something?"

"Yeah, that one. But it's fine, I can—"

He didn't wait. Reyhaan reached up, effortlessly plucking the book from the high shelf. As he handed it to her, their fingers brushed—a fleeting contact that felt tuned to a frequency only they could hear.

"Thanks," she murmured. Her fingers curled around the book tighter than necessary. It was ridiculous, really, how her heart cataloged the way he fit into a room—not by demanding space, but by warming the air around him.

They drifted toward the music section, a curated rack of nostalgia ranging from The Beatles to BTS. Tucked modestly between a Taylor Swift deluxe edition and a John Coltrane reissue sat VYER.

Reyhaan stared at the cover art, his expression unreadable. "Still weird. Seeing our name in the wild, sitting next to actual legends."

She looked at him curiously. "To some people, you are the legend."

He didn't deflect or agree, only smiled faintly as he flipped through the cases. She watched him—the gentle way his fingers moved, the dip of his brows as he read tracklists, the way he tilted his head to catch the faint melody filtering from the café speakers. He felt sound more than he heard it. She filed that detail away, quietly.

Eventually, he set aside a jazz compilation.

"Your brother likes jazz?"

"He doesn't. But if I wrap it in enough guilt, he might pretend."

They found a quiet corner near the reading nook—cushions scattered beneath the pool of an arched lamp. They sat with the comfort of people who no longer felt the need to perform.

"I didn't know you were into old music," Aria said, watching him study the album sleeve.

"Grew up with it. Mom always played Lata Mangeshkar on Sundays. Dad preferred Kishore Kumar. At some point, it just became... mine too."

"I never saw you talk about that online."

"Yeah." Reyhaan gave a small nod. "People love turning opinions into headlines. Especially when you're not just a guy on the internet anymore. I'd rather let the songs just be songs."

Aria understood that protection. "Makes sense. I don't like asking people personal stuff either. If they want to tell me, they will."

"Exactly," he said, meeting her eyes. "I like that about you."

Her ears warmed, but she held his gaze. "Anyway, did you hear about the basketball tournament next week?"

He blinked. "No. I only remember someone mentioning a fest later this month."

"You were there," she smirked. "It was in the department group chat. During that boring lecture."

"Ah." He laughed, a low rumble. "That explains it. I might have tuned out."

"Kian's playing. If you don't show up, Maya will physically drag you there. Willingly or not."

He raised an eyebrow. "That sounds suspiciously personal."

"It happened. Twice," she confessed. "I was the victim."

"And yet," he said, nudging her shoulder with his own, "you survived."

"Barely."

Laughter bubbled between them, uncontained.

"What about the fest?" Reyhaan asked, turning fully toward her. "Got any plans?"

She shook her head. "Not really. Might volunteer. Help with scheduling."

"You should sell your cookies."

She blinked. "What?"

"The cookies. Those little ones wrapped in the see-through packets with the bows? People would line up." He sounded entirely serious.

"You say that like you'd help."

"I would," he replied, as if it were obvious. "Just don't make me do the math."

"You'd be a good attraction at the stall," she said, the words slipping past her filter.

His eyebrows rose slowly, a smirk playing on his lips—amused and entirely too knowing. "Excuse me?"

Her stomach flipped. "I mean—you would draw people in! As a public figure! Not like—"

He held up a hand, grinning. "Just stating facts, right?"

Aria wanted to dissolve into the floorboards. But strangely, she didn't mind being seen like this. Not by him.

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

The moment passed, warm and easy. They lingered, trading small truths about childhood books and favorite film scores. Nothing grand. Everything real. And somewhere in the middle of it, Aria realized that talking to Reyhaan felt grounding. Not dramatic. Not heart-racing. Steady.

She used to shrink in moments like this—exposed, vulnerable. But with him, exposure felt safe. Like finding the first sentence after a long writer's block. Like realizing she hadn't missed the train after all.

It wasn't something either of them had named. But maybe that's what made it feel like a good story—quiet at first, but impossible to forget.

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

Wednesday brought a sharper cold, wind chasing dead leaves across the campus square. The media room had become their refuge, less for the equipment and more for the reliable heating system.

Reyhaan dropped into his usual seat at the end of the long desk, notebook open on his lap. Across from him, Aria was underlining text, her pen moving with slow, thoughtful precision. Maya sat cross-legged on a chair, half-turned, filling the margins of her notes with doodles of tram signs and stick figures.

A portable speaker hummed white noise—static that had become part of the room's texture.

"So," Maya said, stretching her arms overhead. "Our kitchen scene. It's solid, right? Intimate framing, moody sound design..."

"But?" Reyhaan asked, hearing the pivot in her tone.

"But we've done cozy," she replied, leaning forward, eyes bright. "What if we push the space? Try something... riskier?"

Aria didn't look up, but her pen slowed. Reyhaan watched the subtle furrow form between her brows. She was listening.

"You mean something visually different or emotionally different?" she asked.

"Both, maybe." Maya clicked the end of her pen repeatedly. "We could try a hallway. Or a stairwell. Someplace transitional. Like the scene's holding its breath."

Reyhaan flipped back a page in his notes. "What about a park bench? Rain. Streetlamp. Two people just... waiting it out."

Aria jotted the suggestion down, underlining waiting twice.

Maya chewed her lip. "It's good. But what's the urgency? Why are they there?"

Silence followed, filled only by the soft clank of the heater. Reyhaan leaned back, tipping his head toward the ceiling. The strip lights flickered, illuminating dust motes dancing in the warm air. His gaze drifted across to the far wall, where old film posters curled at the edges under the dry heat.

He thought of late-night jam sessions, times when silence wasn't empty but pregnant with a melody waiting to be found.

"What about a tram stop?" he said, sitting forward.

Maya raised an eyebrow. Aria's pen paused mid-stroke.

"Imagine it. It's late. Raining. Two characters waiting side by side. One of them deliberately lets the tram pass. The silence holds until it's gone. Then—just a few words. Nothing loud. But everything changes in that pause."

Aria blinked, then slowly nodded. "The kind of silence heavier than speech."

"Yes," Maya said, flipping to a clean page to sketch. "Neon reflections on wet pavement. Maybe condensation on the glass. I could block it so the camera moves only once—right after the tram leaves."

"I'll build the soundscape around tension," Reyhaan added, the audio layers already forming in his mind. "Raindrops on plastic. The low electric hum of the line. Distant echoes. I want the viewer to feel the chill."

Aria was writing faster now, script flowing. "Silver-toned lighting. Umbrellas tilted away. Avoiding eye contact until the last second."

The ideas stacked, quiet but urgent. Maya sketched. Aria listed cues. Reyhaan watched it unfold—not polished, not perfect, but honest. It felt like a song assembling itself in midair.

"I'll write this down tonight," Aria said, voice decisive. "Create a visual mood board."

"I can do the first pass on the script," Maya offered. "Unless you want to, Aria?"

"I'll take co-writing," Aria said, looking up. "I have the beats in mind."

Reyhaan raised his eyebrows slightly. There was a new steadiness in her voice he hadn't heard before—a refusal to wait for permission that tugged at something unspoken in him.

He tapped his pen against the table. "I like this. A lot. It feels... right."

Maya grinned. "Then it's settled. We're about to make the saddest tram stop scene in campus history."

"I thought that was your vibe anyway," Reyhaan said dryly.

"Tragic, but cinematic," Maya corrected.

Aria smiled, underlining the title once, then again – this time not out of hesitation, but intent.

As they packed up, Reyhaan lingered on the feeling. The kitchen scene had been safe. But this new idea? It asked more. It demanded vulnerability. And none of them were backing away.

It reminded him of his band—that feeling when a bridge resolved perfectly, when the silence between chords carried weight. But this was different.

No stage. No spotlight. Just a story they were choosing to tell.