By Wednesday, things felt solid.

They had no shared classes that day, but met up in the campus café during lunch, slipping into one of the quieter booths near the window. The tray between them carried half-drunk cups, napkins scribbled with thoughts, and Maya’s aggressively colorful highlighters.

Aria had compiled the whole thing into a presentation—minimalist and precise, each element placed with care. The slides on her tablet held modest layouts, balanced margins, and thoughtful transitions. The blues weren’t just blues. They were temperature, tone, and timing. It felt like her mind saw through layers without needing to pause.

“Wait,” Maya said suddenly, tapping the edge of the screen. “That font’s too clean—it makes the scene feel colder than it is. Try one with softer edges? And maybe space out this title line?”

Aria blinked, caught mid-sentence. There was a pause—brief, barely noticeable—but Reyhaan saw her thumb still against the screen, like she was holding something back. Then she nodded. “You’re right. I didn’t see that.”

She adjusted the text, her expression open but quieter than before.

Reyhaan had noticed it, though—not the flaw, but the intention. How the font choice echoed the symmetry of the scene they were building. Distance held in balance. Silence with shape. Aria saw the world that way—through quiet structure. Just because Maya didn’t read it that way didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

So he spoke, not to correct, but to bridge.

“The way you placed everything,” he said softly, “it already carried a kind of stillness. But Maya’s suggestion works too—for how we’re presenting it. It keeps the tone soft, but approachable.”

Aria looked up, and their eyes met. Something passed between them—a flicker of understanding. Her nod this time came slower, more grounded.

Then Maya had passed over her storyboard scans, each panel rough but expressive. “And here,” she pointed, “this is the frame I want to linger on. Right after the line, but before the reaction. That breath? That's the emotion."

“And this,” Reyhaan added, pulling up a short clip on his phone, “is what I want in the background. You won’t notice it consciously, but you’ll feel it. The quiet buzz, the hum of a fridge door not fully closed. It keeps the room alive.”

They didn’t over-rehearse. Just passed the pieces between them, refining them where they needed. The rhythm had settled into something easy.

It was a group. Not just in the academic sense—but in the way it felt to build something together, knowing which parts were yours and which ones were someone else’s strength.

And Reyhaan, quietly, felt it anchor him in place.

Aria had said, You listen differently.

And now, in moments like these, he started to believe it.

He used to think that kind of listening only mattered in music. But here, with their scenes and sounds and scribbled napkin plans—it mattered just as much. Maybe more.

He’d had this before—in flashes. In rehearsal rooms, where jokes and lyrics blurred into a kind of shorthand. Where friends caught each other mid-thought and didn’t need to translate. But this was different. Calmer. No stage. No pressure to perform.

Here, he wasn’t leading. Wasn’t being that Reyhaan. He was just… fitting in. Being part of something that let him be, not prove.

And maybe, just maybe, he thought as Maya tossed a highlighter between her fingers and Aria adjusted a title with quiet precision—he had chosen the right group.

Not just because they understood film.

But because they might also, slowly, begin to understand him.

And for the first time in a long while, that thought didn’t scare him.

It felt like a start.

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—how it didn’t feel rehearsed, just familiar now. Quiet, 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. Her fingers swiped through the slides with practiced ease. Maya took over next, diving into the framing and character blocking with a theatrical confidence that made Reyhaan smile. 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 kind of sound that filled the gaps between people.

This was his first creative pitch in years—outside the safety of his band, his circle, his cadence. No spotlight. No stage. Just an idea he believed in, shared without armor.

The room went still.

When they finished, the silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt considered.

Meijer nodded slowly. Then smiled—a rare, small thing. “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 the corner of her page. Maya exhaled beside him, a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. Reyhaan felt a weight shift in his chest—quiet, but present. 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 without missing a beat.

“You’d be honored to witness it,” Aria added, her tone dry, but a small smile tugged 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. This was familiar—not in detail, but in feeling. He remembered this kind of rhythm with his bandmates. The unspoken ease. The way a joke landed, a glance translated, without anyone needing to explain. It wasn’t the same, but it echoed. A kind of emotional muscle memory.

As they recapped the class, Kian followed along with an easy nod. When Reyhaan mentioned ambient sound, Kian raised a brow and said, “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 tired, maybe, but 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. Not claimed. Not performed.

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, just watched it take shape.

A group. A real one.

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 lights in the hall were off. His 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 reply came fast.

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.

And just like that, the group chat spiraled into noise.

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. 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 blinked, then 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. They just nodded, each 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 for a short video. But even in the noise, there was comfort. Reyhaan leaned back, watching them talk, the phone screen lit warm in the low light of his room. A part of him felt steadier just hearing their voices.

He loved this—this easy noise, the shorthand between them. But somewhere in the quiet he'd chosen now, something else was taking root. A kind of stillness that didn’t echo. It held.

“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 there was a gentle knock 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. Then sat beside him on the edge of the bed. For a while, they said nothing. Just the hush of the room and the late hour folding around them.

“I like seeing you like this,” she admitted finally. “Even when you’re tired. It suits you. This pace. This focus.”

“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 like she did when he was a boy. “You already are.”

And for a while, they sat like that. No grand declarations. No confessions. Just warmth.

And the quiet certainty of being seen.