Three days before finals, their table looked less like a study group and more like a battlefield where paper had declared war on logic.

Notes bled across the boundaries of personal space. Kian's programming flowcharts encroached on Aria's literature maps; Maya's aggressively color-coded flashcards were scattered like shrapnel beneath Reyhaan's own annotated film scripts. There was a comfort in the wreckage, somehow. Familiar.

They didn't assign seats anymore. They just gravitated. Kian, wired on coffee black enough to fuel a small engine; Maya, muttering like a general planning a siege; Aria, her pages pinned down by a half-eaten chocolate bar and the corner of someone else's diagram.

And Reyhaan. Somehow, gravity always pulled him into the chair beside her. Not by design. Just... physics.

"Okay," Maya groaned, brandishing a textbook like a weapon. "If Professor Meijer includes anything from that pre-war montage paper, I'm filing a formal grievance for emotional damages."

"You said that yesterday," Kian murmured, his eyes never leaving his screen.

"And it remains true today."

Aria didn't look up. She simply slid a neon square across the table toward Maya. You're brave. You'll survive. Underlined three times in purple ink.

Maya stared at it, then sniffed dramatically. "I feel so supported. So deeply moved."

Reyhaan grinned, tearing off a sticky note of his own. He scribbled a quick message and slid it to Aria: Still breathing?

She snorted—a low, unpolished sound—and wrote back: Debatable.

She leaned closer to inspect his notebook. "You actually look organized. I'm shocked."

"Excuse you," he whispered, feigning offense. "I am a pillar of academic rigor."

"You doodled a sad microphone in the margin."

"That's thematic."

"And a stick figure getting crushed by a piano."

He tapped the sketch with his pen. "Stress management."

A small smile broke across her face. He noticed it—how could he not? It wasn't the polite expression she wore for strangers; it was real, reaching her eyes. Every time it appeared, the tension in his own chest unspooled a little further.

Across the table, Maya narrowed her eyes at them. "Okay, is this some coded sticky-note flirtation I should be concerned about?"

"Nope," Aria said, deadpan.

"Yes," Reyhaan said at the same time.

Kian didn't even blink. "They've been passing notes like it's the Cold War. Except less subtle."

"I like paper," Aria muttered, defensive.

"And passive communication," Reyhaan added.

They exchanged a look—a shared frequency that didn't require transmission. Aria reached for the pad again. Her pen moved with deliberate, heavy strokes: Still better than silence?

Reyhaan paused.

The pen felt heavy in his hand. He thought about the empty apartment, the weeks of not speaking, the suffocation of a silence that had no bottom.

He wrote: Some silences are loud. Yours isn't.

She read it, then folded the note with slow precision, tucking it between the pages of her notebook like a pressed flower.

He didn't say it aloud, but the definition of silence had shifted for him since June. There was the kind that choked you, the vacuum left when you lost your utility. And then there was this. A silence with room to breathe. A language he was finally learning to read.

Before the moment could gain too much weight, Maya let out another groan. "Okay, someone quiz me on editing theory before I cry over linear montage."

Reyhaan leaned back, the chair legs scraping against the floor. "Only if I get to grade you in interpretive dance."

"I will throw my highlighter at you," Maya warned.

"Which one?" Kian asked. "You're wearing two in your hair."

Aria laughed, and Reyhaan let himself sink into the sound. The anxiety of the coming week hadn't vanished, but here, surrounded by friends and the smell of cheap coffee, it was manageable. He watched Aria draw a line through a paragraph, her brow furrowed in concentration. She was the same—same sweater, same gold ring—but entirely different. She wasn't shrinking anymore.

"You know," he murmured, tilting his head toward her, "this might be my favorite version of finals."

She raised a brow. "The one with sleep deprivation and impending doom?"

"The one with all of you."

She looked at him for a second longer than necessary. Then, without a word, she slid him another sticky note.

Blank. Just a square of yellow space.

Reyhaan stared at it and smiled. It wasn't empty. It was an invitation.

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The screening room was pressurized. Reyhaan could feel it in the air—a mix of recycled oxygen and high-stakes anxiety, when he walked in with Maya, Aria, and Kian.

Film and Media were sharing the slot with Computer Science, which meant the schedule was tight. Students shuffled in the dark. A few names had already been called. Some presentations had passed with nothing more than polite nods. In the back, someone whispered about render glitches and missing HDMI cables like they were discussing bomb disposal.

Reyhaan sat between Aria and Maya, with Kian tapping the back of his chair from the row behind. Jury members shuffled evaluation papers in the front: two visiting faculty, Professor Meijer at the console, and Professor Cleo in her usual spot near the aisle—alert, but calm.

When Professor Meijer called their names in a neutral tone— "Group Four. Aria, Maya, and Reyhaan. Please set up." —a few heads turned.

"The tram scene group," someone murmured.

Reyhaan stood, hands in his pockets, but his attention was fixed on Aria.

She walked ahead of him. Her spine was straight, her movements economical. She wore a navy blazer and wide-leg trousers, her hair pulled back in a low twist. There was no hesitation in her stride. She didn't look like she was walking to a jagged edge anymore; she looked like she owned the floor.

Just Aria—composed, capable, present.

"Alright, CEO," he murmured as they approached the front. "You launching a production house after this?"

She glanced sideways, her expression calm but amused. "Only if you do the sound design and Maya runs my PR."

"Deal."

She handed the drive to Meijer with the composure of someone offering a gift rather than an assignment. Just before the lights died, her fingers brushed his wrist. Featherlight. An anchor dropped in deep water.

The room went black. The projector hummed to life.

Fade in.

Rain on pavement. A girl waiting. A boy sitting across from her, the distance between them measured in heartbeats

The film unfolded. Every sound Reyhaan had built—the footsteps, the distant traffic, the friction of wool against skin—sat exactly in its pocket. Maya's framing was intentional, holding the tension. But it was Aria's pacing that carried it. She understood the visual rhythm of waiting.

Watching it, Reyhaan felt a strange sense of déjà vu. He saw the Saturday morning shoot, the rain that hadn't been in the script, Aria scribbling notes while soaked to the bone. He remembered the sound of the rain hitting the metal shelter—uneven, percussive. He hadn't planned to use that raw audio, but it was there now, in the final mix.

Every piece had fallen into place like a patient kind of fate.

When the screen faded to black once again, the silence in the room wasn't awkward. It was heavy.

Earned.

"There's restraint here," a visiting professor said from the front row. "You gave the scene room to breathe."

"The sound design trusted the quiet. It's admirable," another added.

Beside him, Maya exhaled, her shoulders dropping three inches.

Professor Cleo smiled at them. "What struck me most wasn't the technical finesse, though it's there, but the emotional truth. It doesn't reach for attention. It waits to be found."

Reyhaan let out a breath. He turned to Aria. Her hands were unfolded in her lap now. He hadn't realized how tight her grip had been until she let go.

"We did well," he murmured.

She nodded, and the smile she gave him was fierce with pride.

Back in their row, students whispered again—some impressed, some mildly envious.

"Definitely the best one so far," someone muttered.

"That felt like a real short film, not a student project."

Maya turned to Aria. "Did you hear that?"

Aria nodded, though she tried hard to bit down her grin.

They sat through three more groups before Kian's name was called. As he stood, Reyhaan caught Maya reaching back from her seat, just far enough to brush her fingers against Kian's. Just once. Barely there. But it landed.

Kian looked down, a grin splitting his face, before he walked to the front with the energy of a man about to sell you the future.

Reyhaan blinked.

He didn't know what surprised him more—the quiet comfort of the gesture, or the fact that Maya, who usually punctuated conversations with jokes and dramatics, had said so much without a word.

He hadn't missed the way Kian leaned into that touch, like he'd been waiting for permission to exhale. And Aria, sitting beside him, had seen it too. A slight lift of her eyebrows. Not teasing. Just noting the shift in the data.

Something was changing—not just in Kian and Maya, but in all of them. Quietly, steadily, like the start of a new rhythm.

"He changed the font last night," Maya whispered.

"Traitor," Aria murmured.

Kian launched into his presentation on data visualization and emotional narratives. He was good—sharp, funny, explaining metadata like it was a plot twist. When he thanked his "unofficial layout designer," Maya bowed from her seat.

When Kian returned, he didn't go back to his row. He slid into the empty seat next to Maya.

Reyhaan glanced at Aria. She was smiling.

He let himself sink into the feeling of the group. It wasn't flashy. It was a web of small connections—inside jokes, shared panic, touches that grounded you when the lights went down.

Maybe it had started in Kian's apartment. Maybe it was the sticky notes. It didn't matter when the rhythm had started; what mattered was that it was playing now. Steady. Unspoken. His.

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They spilled out of the media building like divers surfacing for air, blinking into the pale winter sun. The air biting, but the relief was warm enough to wear.

"Okay," Kian said, rubbing his face. "Say what you will, but this group is good luck."

"Controlled chaos," Maya corrected.

"Same thing." Kian grinned. "But seriously. The film. The presentation. It worked."

"Even your soaked notes?" Aria asked.

He pointed at her. "Hey, creative genius needs mess."

"You had mess," Reyhaan said. "Where was the genius?"

Kian groaned. "Rude. I'll have you know, the jury called my emotional arc tracker clever. And insightful. I might print it on a t-shirt."

They laughed, the sound easy and worn-in. Then Kian's voice dropped a register. "For real, though. I'm glad we did this. You guys feel like... I don't know. Like home, sometimes. Family."

Reyhaan looked at him. Kian, who usually deflected sincerity with a joke about coding or cats, looked dead serious. The word 'family' wasn't something he used lightly. Not because he didn't mean it.

But because he meant it too much.

"Sentimental and smart?" Maya looped her arm through his. "You're ruining your brand."

"I can live with that."

"Until grades come out," Reyhaan added.

"Only if I don't get an A."

"You will," Aria said. "We'll make sure of it."

They walked toward the bike racks, the group naturally splitting as Kian and Maya debated dinner. Reyhaan was about to follow when he felt a tug on his sleeve.

He turned. Aria was standing just behind him, her expression shy but determined.

"Hey," she said. "Wait a second."

She stepped into the lee of the building, out of the wind.

"I promised you a surprise. Remember?"

"Back during finals prep?"

She nodded, reached into her tote bag and pulled out a small silver tin. It was old-fashioned, the metal dull and cool.

"This is it," she said. "Honey ginger candies. My mom's recipe. I made them the night after we talked."

He took the tin. It had a comforting heft.

"For me?"

"No, for Kian's sore ego," she deadpanned, then softened. "Yes. For you. She said they help with... the throat. For someone struggling with their voice."

He stopped breathing for a second. The ache in his chest was sudden and sharp—not pain, but the pressure of being seen.

"You... kept them this whole time?"

"I was waiting," she said simply. "I didn't want it to feel like I was trying to fix you. Just... a gesture."

She shrugged a little. "Today felt right."

Reyhaan didn't open it. The seal felt important. Like a promise kept.

"You didn't have to, Aria."

"I wanted to."

There it was. That quiet certainty. She didn't ask for credit. She just offered.

"I've never had anyone make something for me like this," he admitted. "Not since... before. And even then, it was for the person on the posters. Not this version."

Aria looked at him. "Well," she said, "this version deserves soft things to."

The words landed deep, resonating like a bass note.

"...You're something else."

"I get that a lot," she said, her smile small and uncertain.

"No, I mean it. You keep catching me off guard."

She looked up at him, the fading light catching her eyes. "That's my brand."

They stood there in the cold, the wind rustling the bare branches above them. The silence wasn't empty. It was a language he was fluent in now.

He tucked the tin into the inside pocket of his coat, right against his ribs.

"Thanks, Aria. Really."

"No need. Just... try one when it's quiet."

"Like now?"

"Too many emotions," she teased. "It might ruin the taste."

They walked back around the corner to find Kian loudly declaring that if dinner didn't involve fries, he was staging a coup.

"You are revolting," Maya told him.

Aria glanced at Reyhaan. "Ready to return to the circus?"

He smiled. "Only if you're leading."

And as they walked, the silver tin pressed against his chest, a small, tangible weight. It wasn't a cure. It wasn't a solution. But it was something better. It was proof.

Being known didn't always require a spotlight. Sometimes, it was just this. A tin of candy. A voice returned through kindness. And someone walking beside you, matching your step.