By Wednesday, the weather had turned colder, with wind chasing leaves through the campus square. Most students huddled indoors between classes, and the media room had become a quiet refuge—not just for its equipment, but because it was one of the few spaces on campus with a reliable heating system.

Reyhaan dropped into his usual seat at the end of the long desk, notebook open on his lap. Aria was across from him, pen gliding under lines she’d written earlier, slow and thoughtful. Beside her, Maya sat cross-legged in a chair, half-turned sideways, scribbling absentmindedly in the margins of her notes—doodles of tram signs, stick figures, and question marks that always seemed to multiply when she was thinking.

A portable speaker hummed white noise in the background, static that had become part of the room’s texture.

“So,” Maya said, stretching her arms overhead, “our cozy kitchen scene—it’s solid, right? Framing’s intimate, sound design’s minimal but moody…”

“But?” Reyhaan asked, already hearing it in her tone.

“But we’ve done cozy,” she replied, leaning forward. “What if we push the space? Try something… riskier?”

Aria didn’t look up, but her pencil slowed. Reyhaan caught the subtle furrow between her brows, the way she pressed the tip a little harder than before. Still listening. Still open.

“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 notebook, scanning notes from their last session. “What about a park bench? Rain. Streetlamp. Two people just… waiting it out.”

Aria jotted the suggestion down, underlining waiting twice.

Maya considered. “It’s good. But what’s the urgency? Why are they there?”

Silence followed. The heater clanked softly. Reyhaan leaned back in his chair, tipping his head to look at the ceiling. One of the strip lights above flickered slightly, the warm glow catching the dust in the air. His gaze drifted across to the far wall, where old film posters curled at the edges under the dry heat.

He used to get ideas like this during late-night jam sessions—when silence did more than fill space; it asked for something. The way some melodies used to come to him, not when he searched, but when he stilled.

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

Maya raised an eyebrow. Aria’s pen paused mid-note.

“Imagin. It’s late. Raining. Two characters waiting side by side. One of them deliberately lets the tram pass. 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 that’s heavier than speech.”

“Yes,” Maya said, already reaching for a clean page to sketch. “Neon reflections on the street. Maybe some 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 the tension,” Reyhaan added. “Raindrops on plastic. Low electric hum from the tram line. Distant echoes. I want the viewer to feel the chill.”

Aria flipped to a fresh page in her notebook, her handwriting tighter now, faster. “Silver-toned lighting. Umbrellas slightly tilted away. Not looking at each other until the last second.”

The ideas kept stacking, quiet but urgent. Maya pulled her legs up on the chair, sketchpad balanced on her knee. Aria had leaned forward, writing a running list of cues, transitions, and visual contrasts.

Reyhaan stayed quiet, watching it unfold. Not polished. Not perfect. But honest. Like watching a melody assemble itself midair.

“I’ll write all this down tonight,” Aria said. “Pull together a visual mood board, maybe.” Her voice was steady. Decisive.

“I can do first pass on the script,” Maya offered, scribbling “Tram Stop” at the top of her page. “Unless you want to, Aria?”

“I’ll take co-writing duties,” Aria said, glancing up. “I’ve got the beats in mind already.”

Reyhaan raised his eyebrows a little, but didn’t say anything. There was a steadiness in her voice he hadn’t heard before – like she wasn’t waiting for permission anymore. It tugged at something unspoken in him.

He tapped his pen twice against the tabletop. “I like this one. 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 replied, not missing a beat.

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

As they packed up, Reyhaan lingered a second longer. He thought of the kitchen scene they'd outgrown, of the safe version they could’ve stuck with. But this new idea? It asked more. Demanded more.

And they weren’t backing away from that.

He used to feel this way with his band—when a bridge resolved just right, when silence between chords meant something. But even those moments felt louder, performative. This was different.

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

Their new scene wasn’t just a shift—it was a risk.

And somehow, they were all ready to take it.

By Thursday, the campus air had settled into a sharper chill. Aria arrived early to the small media side room, where a worn couch and mismatched chairs had unofficially become their group’s usual setup. She curled into the corner seat, flipping through the script draft Maya had sent the night before. It was lean, visual, filled with silence where words would’ve once been.

Maya arrived minutes later, sliding into the opposite chair with a dramatic sigh. “We need to cast by this weekend, or I’m pulling random people off the quad.”

Aria smiled behind her notebook. “You already have someone in mind, don’t you?”

“Daan,” Maya replied without pause. “You’ve seen his face. Like someone hiding a thousand secrets.”

“Okay, but only if we find someone who can match that energy,” Aria said, flipping a page. “What about that girl from our media lab group? I think she did student theatre.”

“Fair,” Maya nodded, then leaned back, eyes on Aria. “Also—you know you were kind of a force in that last session, right?”

Aria blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Maya said, gesturing with her pencil, “you didn’t flinch when I offered the script. You co-wrote. You knew what you wanted in those beats.”

Aria hesitated. She’d felt a small thrill reading the final version the night before—surprised at how much of her had ended up on the page. But even now, part of her waited for someone to call it a fluke. That voice quieted, just a little, when Maya spoke.

“I’ve just started trusting what I see. What I feel.”

She hadn’t planned to say it aloud, but the words came out easier than they would’ve a few months ago. Maybe because she believed them now, in a way she hadn’t before.

“There’s a shift in you,” Maya said softly. “I don’t know what it is yet. But it’s a good thing.”

Whatever Aria might’ve said next was cut short by the door creaking open. Reyhaan stepped in, balancing coffee cups and an extra hoodie thrown over his shoulder.

“Peace offerings,” he said. “In case I missed anything brilliant.”

“You did,” Maya said, grabbing a cup. “But we’re merciful.”

Reyhaan grinned and took the seat beside Aria, letting their shoulders briefly touch as he settled. The contact was nothing, really—but it still sparked something familiar and warm. A quiet awareness. Not distracting, just present.

“So. Script updates?”

“Mostly dialogue fine-tuning,” Aria said, passing him the marked-up draft. “We talked casting. Maya wants Daan. I might reach out to that girl from the lab group.”

“And props?” he asked. “We’ll need real coats. Layers. It’s half the visual.”

“I can bring a few from home,” Maya offered. “I hoard fabric like a costume designer in denial.”

“And I’ll ask my cousin,” Reyhaan added. “He’s a coat fiend.”

They moved through their checklist like that, each thought building on the last. Aria suggested adjusting a few of the light cues in the third beat. Reyhaan noted how shadows could echo dialogue. Maya sketched out tram sign mockups in the margins of her notebook like it was second nature.

It wasn’t just planning anymore—it felt like imagining a story together.

“Don’t forget Kian’s match on Saturday,” Maya reminded, tapping her pen against the table. “We are cheering. Loudly. With pride.”

“I’ll bring the banner,” Aria replied, unsmiling.

“I’ll bring glitter,” Maya countered.

“I’m scared,” Reyhaan muttered, but he was smiling.