A few weeks had passed since the tram stop idea had flickered to life between them like a quiet spark. Since then, things had moved—slowly but surely. The script had been finalized. The actors were cast. Their notebooks were layered in storyboards and mood boards, and margin-scrawled ideas.

It was happening.

And unlike theory classes—which asked questions Reyhaan could answer in straight lines—this was a different kind of work. Practice was never just execution. It was translation. Taking what you felt and laying it bare for someone else to witness.

And that, Reyhaan had always found, was the risk.

Lyrics had come easier than performing them. You could write quietly. Alone. But performance demanded presence. It asked you to mean it out loud. To say, this is what I felt, and maybe it’ll matter to you too.

Today was one of those days. The kind where you weren’t just building something—you were offering a piece of yourself to see if it could hold.

Saturday started cold. The sky hung low and undecided, a flat sheet of grey that hadn’t made up its mind yet. It wasn’t raining, but it felt like the air was practicing. Reyhaan arrived with Kian, helping carry sound gear and tripods from the van. Most of the extra hands were friends of Maya’s from the film program—sleepy-eyed but moving with the practiced energy of students who’d done this enough times to know where the cables went.

The square where they were shooting was still half-asleep, its usual weekend rhythm delayed.

They had planned everything. Call sheets. Setup times. Gear lists. But even plans had a way of slipping sideways.

Maya was already pacing by the tram shelter when they reached, phone pressed to her ear, frustration sharp in her shoulders. Aria stood a few feet away, clipboard in hand, her voice quiet but focused as she spoke to two of the crew members.

One of their student actors had dropped out. A last-minute text. Sick. Not coming.

“Seriously?” Maya snapped, ending the call. “She confirmed two days ago.”

Reyhaan exchanged a glance with Kian, brows knit in worry, but his mind was already reeling for plan B. “You sure it’s not nerves?”

“Either way, she’s out,” Maya replied, sighing. “And the backup’s busy till next weekend.”

Reyhaan rubbed his temple. Kian handed Maya a thermos, trying to steady the mood.

“What if we shoot the reverse later?” Aria asked, joining the group. Her eyes settled briefly on each of them. “For now, we use over-the-shoulder filler. Could even stage it with a coat and just hands, if needed. We can use tighter frames. Focus on isolation. It won’t matter that the second character isn’t here for the full coverage.”

Reyhaan looked at her, something settling in him at the way she said it. She wasn’t loud about her ideas. But when she spoke, the room seemed to pause just long enough to hear her.

“We built the mood on pauses, right?” he said. “This one will just… pause a little longer.”

Aria inclined her head in quiet certainty.

Maya looked at her, then at Reyhaan. “You two just solved a three-hour problem in under thirty seconds. Like it was nothing.”

Aria moved off to relay the change, walking beside Kian towards the crew. Reyhaan watched her—the way she crouched to adjust a reflection board, the way her hand moved across her folded storyboard, redrawing angles in clean, intuitive lines.

She didn’t push for attention. But her presence demanded it.

“There’s something about the way she works,” Maya admired her friend. “Won’t say it out loud, but she’s good.”

“She doesn’t hesitate,” Reyhaan murmured, still watching Aria. “Even when the plan falls apart.”

“She learned how to improvise the hard way.”

He turned to Maya, brows raised.

“You know she finished her design program, right? Final project was this narrative visual piece. She poured everything into it. Professors said it had heart but not enough structure. Classmates took her help but left when it was time to stand beside her.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Just that... when she needed support, they asked for proof instead. Called her selfish for walking away.” Maya glanced at him. “But she didn’t walk. She just stopped proving herself to people who wouldn’t see her.”

He looked back at Aria, who was now adjusting the umbrella angle on set, her breath visible in the cold air.

“She didn’t quit,” Maya added. “Just needed to find her own terms. This project—it’s her return.”

Reyhaan felt the words settle. Not with surprise—but with recognition.

He knew what it was to be told he was too emotional, too intuitive. Not technical enough. Knew what it was to fall out of love with the thing you’d built your life around—only to come back, hoping you’d still know how.

“She ever tell you that?” Reyhaan asked.

“She didn’t have to,” Maya answered simply.

They stood in silence a beat longer, side by side. Watching.

“She sees the shape of a scene before we do,” Maya added. “Just doesn’t always take credit for it.”

Reyhaan gave a small nod, more to himself than anyone else. “That’s going to change.”

Maya smirked, eyeing him. “You gonna tell her that?”

He didn’t answer. And Maya didn’t wait, she walked off to check on the props.

Reyhaan stayed where he was for a moment longer.

Something was settling in him. Not heavy. Not hard. Just a quiet awareness. That maybe Aria had more in common with him than he’d let himself think. That maybe, without saying it, she had been building her way back all this time. And he’d been watching her do it—admiring it—without letting himself name it.

But now, as she moved across the frame again, sleeves pushed up, hair tucked behind one ear, gesture purposeful—he didn’t look away.

And maybe it wasn’t just about admiration anymore.

It was alignment.

And something in him wanted to meet her where she was—mid-motion.