The media lab didn't just sound empty; it felt suspended, like a breath held too long.

Aria stirred to a blur.

Her eyes ached. The first sensation was a dull ache behind her eyes, followed by the disorienting, pixelated glow of the monitor saver—tiny geometric shapes bouncing aimlessly against a black void.

She blinked, trying to scrub the haze from her vision. The room was a wash of indistinct shadows and the low, mechanical hum of cooling processors. She reached out blindly, her hand brushing the cool laminate of the desk until her fingers found the familiar wireframes of her glasses.

She slid them on, and theworld snapped back into sharp, undeniable focus.

Right next to her keyboard sat a blue sticky note.

Render's finished. You were right about the snag—it gives the scene a pulse. See you tomorrow. – Rey

The handwriting was slanted, efficient, yet strangely careful. Aria felt the corner of her mouth tug upward. It was just a note, but it carried his tone perfectly: restrained, observant, and precise.

She sat up, wincing as her stiff neck protested the angle she'd slept in. As she moved, something heavy and warm slipped from her shoulders. She caught the fabric before it hit the floor—a flannel overshirt. It was soft, worn-in at the elbows, and smelled faintly of cedar and detergent.

Reyhaan's.

She hadn't felt him put it there. The realization settled in her chest, a sudden, localized heat that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. It was care, distilled into cotton. She folded the shirt with unnecessary care, tucking it into her tote bag before turning her attention to the screen.

The file was done. 100% Complete.

She saved the project, ejected her drive, and glanced at the time in the corner of the screen. Her stomach dropped.

"Oh no," she whispered.

Way past curfew. She had permission for the project, technically, but the lateness gnawed at her principles. She packed up in a flurry of movement, shutting down the station and slipping out into the hallway. The building was dormant, the silence broken only by the rhythmic squeak of her boots on the linoleum.

Outside, the night air hit her like a physical weight—dry, biting, and smelling of frost. She pulled her scarf up to her nose and walked briskly toward the tram stop.

The city at this hour felt like a secret. Shops were shuttered, their interiors dark, but the streetlamps cast pools of amber onto the damp pavement. When the tram arrived, rattling and sighing as it braked, she stepped into the near-empty car.

Aria sank into a window seat, pressing her temple against the cold glass. The vibration of the rails hummed through the frame as they moved. Watching the city slide by—lit windows, empty bicycles, the blur of neon signs—she felt a strange sense of peace. There was something oddly beautiful about the city at night. It breathed slower. Softer. The sharpness of the day dulled. Even the noise, when it came, seemed distant—like it knew not to intrude.

It reminded her of earlier that evening, walking with the group, trading jokes and snacks like currency. It was a companionship that didn't demand performance. With them, she didn't have to edit herself.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Reyhaan: Did you make it home?

She stared at the screen, the blue light harsh in the dim tram car.

Aria: Still on the tram. Almost there.

She watched the three dots appear. Then vanish. Then appear again.

She tilted her head, watching. It was a digital hesitation that mirrored him perfectly. Maybe he was about to say something important. Something about the project? Or something more personal, something waiting at the edge of being said.

Reyhaan: Okay. Let me know when you reach, yeah?

Simple. But it felt like a tether.

Aria: I will. Promise.

Reyhaan: Sorry about the chair nap. Hope your spine forgives us someday.

She smiled, typing back one-handed. The vibration of the tram hummed beneath her temple like a low lullaby.

Aria: I've had worse. And thanks... for the shirt.

Reyhaan: Didn't want you to wake up cold.

The phrasing was careful. Pruned.

Aria: You type like someone deleting whole confessions and settling on weather updates.

A beat.

Reyhaan: Guilty. It's a process.

She didn't push. Instead, she sent: Take your time. She added a small blue heart before she could overthink it.

The tram slowed to a halt at her stop. She stepped out into the wind, the cold nipping at her exposed skin, and hurried the last block to the hostel at the end of the street—four stories tall, ordinary, and slightly worn at the corners.

Once inside her room, surrounded by the familiar clutter of books and unmade sheets, she felt the tension of the day finally unspool. Still, it felt like her own small corner of the world.

She wasn't usually this untidy. But it was the end of the semester. That explained everything.

She changed quickly into her softest layers, burrowing under the quilt, and pulled up the chat one last time.

Aria: Reached.

Reyhaan: Good. That's good.

Reyhaan: Did you get to see the final version?

Aria: Not yet. But I'll watch it tomorrow. I saw your note, though. You were right—the snag made it feel lived in. Like memory, not just footage.

Reyhaan: That's what you're good at. Catching those quiet things.

Aria: You make them land.

Then, a minute later:

Reyhaan: There's something I want to say. Just... not sure how.

Aria's thumb hovered over the screen. Her pulse kicked up a notch. But before she could reply, another message followed.

Reyhaan: Not tonight. Just... thank you. For noticing.

Her chest warmed.

Aria: Whenever you're ready. I'll be here.

It wasn't a promise, but somehow it felt like one.

She set the phone down. The city outside continued its low, nocturnal hum, but inside, the silence felt different. It wasn't empty anymore. It felt like the pause before a verse—expectant, waiting to be filled.

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

The next morning, the media lab smelled of ozone and desperation.

"I have tried everything," Kian announced, staring at the frozen monitor with the look of a man contemplating betraying his own technology. "I have bargained. I have threatened. I have prayed to servers that don't exist."

Reyhaan crouched beneath the desk, nudging a tangle of cables with his boot. "Have you tried the one loose wire near the back? The one you kicked yesterday?"

"I did not kick it," Kian protested. "I repositioned it aggressively."

Maya, perched on the desk above them, laughed. "If this computer dies, Kian, you're acting out the entire final scene with hand puppets."

"I'll do it," Kian threatened. "Don't test me."

Aria sat nearby, nursing a thermos of lukewarm cocoa, watching them. Reyhaan was still under the desk, his voice muffled as he instructed Kian to try rebooting one last time. There was a competence to him—a calm practicality that balanced out Kian's high-frequency panic.

When the screen finally flickered to life, Kian threw his hands up. "A miracle! I'm buying a donut. A glazed monument to my success."

"Buy two," Reyhaan said, emerging from beneath the table and dusting off his knees. "I did the actual work."

They huddled around the monitor to watch the final render of the tram scene. It was there—the mood they had fought for. The layering of sound Reyhaan had built, the framing Maya had argued for, the pacing Aria had insisted upon.

Maya leaned into her shoulder, whispering dramatically, "It's so beautiful. Our weird little baby is almost ready to walk."

"It's unbalanced," Reyhaan murmured, leaning in to check a transition.

"Like the people who made it," Kian noted.

Aria laughed, the sound bubbling up easily. She stole a glance at Reyhaan. The low light from the monitor carved soft lines on his face. His lips moved as he mouthed through a bit of dialogue, testing its pacing. There was a quiet in him today—not heavy, just centered. And she liked being close to that. Liked noticing things that didn't ask to be noticed.

Maybe it wasn't supposed to be seamless. Maybe this was the snag—the tiny catch that made the story land.

Their project. Almost done. They were a mess of contradictory aesthetics and sleep schedules, but they worked.