By afternoon, the group had migrated to the library. The high ceilings and rows of dust-scented books demanded a hush that Kian and Maya were struggling to respect. They sat at the far end of the long table, arguing in aggressive whispers about flashcards.

Aria sat opposite them, next to Reyhaan. The proximity was becoming a habit.

She glanced at his notes. They were intimidatingly neat—lines straight, key terms underlined with a ruler, and occasionally punctuated with what she suspected were doodles of speaker icons and tiny frowny faces. Her own were more chaotic—highlighters, arrows, pieces of earlier semesters tangled in.

"Your handwriting," she whispered, leaning closer, "looks like it's afraid to make a mistake."

He glanced sideways, a pen twirling in his fingers. "Precision is a survival trait. If I lose a sound file because I can't read my own label, I lose my mind."

"Do you still misspell 'ambient'?"

"Only spiritually."

She grinned, turning back to her own notebook.

They worked in a companionable lull for an hour until Aria stood up to find a reference text.

"Race you?" Reyhaan murmured, standing up with her.

"Please. I know exactly where it is."

"You're assuming you can reach it."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Height discrimination. Noted."

They parted in opposite directions down the aisles. The ceilings arched overhead, old wood beams like ribs curving above her. Dust floated in shafts of light coming through the upper windows. It breathed faintly of binding glue, old paper, and the static charge of winter.

Aria found the spine she needed—Media and Memory—on a top shelf. She stretched, her fingertips just brushing the cover. She blew a strand of hair out of her glasses—fogging them in return for a second—as she fumbled again.

Her fingers grazed it—nearly.

Then, another hand reached over her shoulder and plucked it down with annoying ease.

She turned—and stopped.

Reyhaan stood entirely too close. Not on purpose. The aisle was narrow. Still, her breath caught. He smelled faintly like petrichor and old paper and something crisp, like aftershave or snow.

He didn't move back. Neither did she.

"You almost had it," he said.

"I did have it." She took the book from him. "You just wanted the win, didn't you?"

"I'm taller. It's my only advantage."

She tilted her head, considering. "That and your mysteriously poetic metaphors."

He blinked, then smiled. "Flattery noted."

Aria stepped back to give them space to walk, but she didn't move away. "For someone who claims to be bad at theory, you're surprisingly good at deconstructing narratives."

"That's just how I process things," he said, his voice dropping to that lower register he used when he wasn't joking. "Through sound. Feeling. The words... they take longer to catch up."

They walked in silence the rest of the way, neither rushing. She didn't mind. There was something warm in it. The shared footsteps, the occasional brush of sleeves, the comfort of not needing to say too much.

Back at the table, the studying devolved into note-passing. Maya had scribbled a list of practice questions, complete with dramatic arrows. Kian had stolen her pen and was drawing stick figures in the margins. Aria chuckled occasionally at them, but most of her focus remained on the.

Reyhaan: Your handwriting is very... interpretive.

Aria: Yours looks like it respects boundaries too much.

Then, the tone shifted. He slid a yellow square across the wood, his expression unreadable.

Reyhaan: What's the one question you hope they don't ask on exam day?

Aria thought for a moment. She wrote: Anything that wants the right answer instead of an honest one.

She watched him read it. His hand stilled. He stared at the paper for a long moment, then picked up his pen. He wrote something, crossed it out, and wrote again.

Reyhaan: Sometimes, I'm afraid the honest answer is too much.

Aria read it twice. She didn't look at him, but she felt the weight of him beside her—the tension in his shoulder, the way he was waiting for her reaction. She wondered what the first version had said. What he'd kept. But she didn't press. Just slipped the note into the inside pocket of her notebook like something worth keeping. Like something waiting.

"I think," she said, keeping her voice low enough that only he could hear, "the honest answer is usually the only one that matters."

He looked at her then. "Even if it's unfinished?"

"Especially then."

His expression softened, the guard coming down just an inch. "You always make things sound like they'll be okay."

"Only when I think they will be."

A small smile played at his lips. Not polished. Not ironic. Just... his.

"Thanks," he said.

Aria smiled back. She didn't need him to say more.

Not yet.

Not when the quiet had already begun to say enough.

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

As their study session drew to a close, Aria could sense that Reyhaan was present, but something in him flickered. His fingers hovered a beat too long over his backpack zipper. He kept glancing toward her, then away. Like he was on the edge of saying something. Like last night's unsent message still lingered in the air between them.

He'd been doing that lately—leaving silences shaped like questions. Not for answers, but for acknowledgment. And whenever something she said landed, when it hit, his expression would shift. Just a little. Like a door nudged further open.

So when Kian and Maya started packing up, talking about whether they should grab a late dinner or prep for tomorrow, Aria waited. Purposefully delayed as she zipped her bag and pulled on her coat. When Reyhaan reached for his scarf, she gently tugged his sleeve.

"Hey," she said softly. "Walk with me?"

He blinked, surprised. "Yeah. Of course."

The sun had set by the time they left the library. The air was crisp, biting at their cheeks. Maya and Kian split off toward the south gate, arguing about whether pineapple belonged on pizza, leaving Aria and Reyhaan walking toward the parking lot.

"You're freezing," Reyhaan noted, seeing her pull her coat tighter. "Want a ride?"

"It's just a few blocks—"

"You'll save money. And frostbite."

She relented with a smile. "Fine. But no sad indie music. I need morale, not melancholy."

"No promises," he said, already leading the way toward the parking lot.

The care was warm—a sanctuary from the wind—and the silence between them was more deliberate than the noise outside. Aria glanced out the window as the city lights blurred past in streaks of amber and red.

"It almost doesn't look real," she murmured, looking at the reflecting mosaic of light on the frozen canal surface.

Reyhaan followed her gaze. "Like something someone painted... and forgot to sign."

She glanced at his reflection in the window glass. Once. Then again.

She felt it—the weight of something unsaid building inside him. As if she didn't make space now, it would stay unsaid.

At a red light, Aria turned to him. "Thought for a thought?"

He glanced over. "What's that?"

"A game. You share a thought—honest, no context needed. And I give you one back."

He considered, his hands relaxing on the wheel. "Okay. You start."

"I think I'm scared," she said, looking out at the frost gathering on the glass. "Because this course ends soon, and I don't know where I'll be next year. And... I think this semester made me feel something I haven't in a long time."

He lifted his eyes towards her for a split second, curious. "What's that?"

"Ease, I guess," she replied. "With people. With myself."

She turned to look at his profile. "And I think... you've been wanting to say something for a while. But you're not."

The light turned green, but he didn't accelerate immediately.

"You're not wrong," he murmured.

A question lingered on her lips, remaining unsaid as he drove on, the car humming beneath them.

"I owe you four thoughts," he said after a minute. "First... I think the sky looks too clear tonight. Like it's trying to say something, but I'm missing the language."

"Poetic," she remarked.

"Second... I've been thinking about that note. About honest answers."

He paused.

"Third... every time you say something that lands, I think it's the right moment to finally talk. And then I lose it."

He pulled up near her hostel. The engine idled, but neither of them moved to open the door.

"I'll keep the fourth," Reyhaan said, his voice rougher now. "But... can I tell you something else instead?"

Aria turned fully in her seat. "Of course."

He stayed still, like he was trying to find the courage to move. Then, slowly, he took a breath, staring through the windshield. "I haven't really said this out loud. Not like this."

She waited. Didn't push. Just nodded once. Letting him know he didn't have to rush.

Reyhaan took another deep breath, then, "Okay."

He shifted in his seat slightly, as though bracing himself—not for her, but for the memory.

"I was at rehearsal," he began, eyes fixed on a distant streetlight. "In the middle of a set. One second I was fine, the next... nothing. My voice just stopped. No sound. Nothing."

Aria felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

"Ilan saw it happen. I couldn't explain... nothing would come out. He drove me straight to a clinic. I thought it was just a strain, maybe a cold. But the doctor said... acute laryngitis. Told me to rest. A few weeks off."

His fingers moved again, one hand rubbing his throat absently. A gesture so instinctive it broke something inside her.

"But... it didn't go away. The weeks stretched. I tried everything... silence, steam, herbal remedies. I even stopped talking to anyone unless I had to. Nothing helped."

His voice dropped lower. "Eventually, I went back. The specialist had the scans done; said it might be... chronic. And I just—" He stopped, shaking his head as if trying to clear it.

She reached out slowly, resting her hand lightly on his arm. She didn't grip. Just a steady touch to remind him she was there.

"The label cancelled the tour. Said they'd keep it quiet. I didn't fight it. I couldn't."

He laughed, hollowly. "I didn't feel like I had a voice left to fight with anyway."

Her breath caught, but she didn't let it show. Her expression stayed soft. Open. She thought of Reyhaan on a stage, where she'd first seen him before all of this. So sure of his voice, his presence. And then... for it to be taken without warning.

"I stayed alone in my apartment after that," he continued. "And that... was a mistake. The quiet was constant. I thought silence would heal me. But it started to feel like... drowning."

Aria's heart ached at that. Quiet had always been her refuge. But for Reyhaan... it had become a prison.

"So I came back home. My parents. Ayaan. They didn't ask me to explain. They just let me exist for a while. It helped. I didn't realize how badly I needed to be somewhere where no one was waiting for me to sing."

He finally looked at her. The vulnerability in his eyes was stark, stripped of his usual composure.

"It's kind of what you do, you know."

She tilted her head slightly, pulling her hand back. "What do I do?"

"You let people breathe," he said. "You listen without crowding. Let them say what they can, and leave the rest."

She gave a small shrug. "Not on purpose, but I'm glad it helps."

He nodded, something in his face softening. Like a thread pulling loose from a knot.

"I don't know what version of me comes next," he admitted. "If music is gone... what's left?"

Aria was quiet for a moment. Then, "Maybe it's not gone. Maybe it's just... being remade. Sometimes, when something breaks, it's just the universe clearing space for what you actually need."

He stared at her, searching her face as if checking if she meant it.

"You're not alone in it," she added. "I hope you know that."

He nodded, a small, genuine movement. "I'm starting to."

She leaned back, lifting her hand to her lips and miming locking them, then holding out the invisible key. "You decide what to do with it."

He smiled—a real smile this time—and mimed taking the key, tucking it into his pocket. "I'll keep it. Might need it later."

The moment lightened, just a little.

Outside, the streetlight flickered once, then steadied. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. The world moved on, slow and unaware of the weight sitting quietly inside the parked car.

After a few more minutes, Aria reached for the door handle. "I should go."

He didn't stop her—but his gaze lingered.

As she stepped out, the cold air brushed Aria. She tugged her scarf tighter and pressed her hand gently over the notebook inside her coat—where the folded note from earlier rested. Soft, unfinished, and real.

"You still owe me a fourth thought," she said, pausing on the pavement.

He leaned across the seat to look at her. "You remembered."

"I remember the things that matter."

She closed the door, leaving him in the warmth of the car, the echo of her words lingering in the small space between them.

And with that, she slipped into the night.