Campus hadn’t gotten louder—just tighter, like everything had been pulled too far and was waiting to snap.

Finals loomed. Study rooms overflowed. Students moved with tunnel vision. They sprinted between labs and vending machines, chasing documents, extensions, and caffeine. Daylight barely made a difference anymore; it was all blurred under whiteboards and fluorescent exhaustion.

“This is it,” Maya declared, slamming her pen down with a dramatic thwack. “This is how I die. Drowning in final assignments, buried under a mountain of coffee-stained lecture slides.”

Kian didn’t even blink. “You’re writing a screenplay, Maya. My compiler just told me it ‘refuses to recognize happiness as a variable.’ I’m literally arguing with a machine.”

Reyhaan, halfway through highlighting yet another section of notes, raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure your machine has a point.”

Kian pointed his pen at him. “Et tu, Brute?”

“I mean,” Reyhaan said, shrugging, “you did name your code ‘final_final_FINAL_2plswork.’ That’s not confidence. That’s a cry for help.”

Maya snorted. Aria, beside Reyhaan, tried to hide a smile behind her mug of lukewarm tea.

“I just want to go back to the beginning of the semester,” Maya groaned, dragging her face across the table. “Back when life was simpler. And deadlines didn’t eat my soul.”

“Oh yeah,” Kian chimed in. “When we thought ‘group project’ meant ‘bonding’ and not ‘mutual emotional breakdown.’”

“I miss when the most stressful part of my day was finding the right tram stop,” Aria added softly, surprising them all.

Reyhaan turned toward her, amused. “Wasn’t that just last week?”

“Yes. But now the tram stop is symbolic.”

There was a pause. Then all four of them burst into laughter.

It was nearing dusk, and the common area outside the media lab looked like a war zone—laptops open, snack wrappers multiplying, someone’s coat draped dramatically over a broken chair like a fallen soldier. The air smelled of stress and leftover vending machine coffee. The kind of chaos that only meant one thing: deadlines were close.

“Okay, we need air,” Reyhaan said, stretching as he stood. “Actual oxygen. Before Maya starts writing her eulogy in screenplay format.”

Maya held up her notes. “INT. LIBRARY—NIGHT. MAYA PERISHES UNDER THE WEIGHT OF UNREALISTIC EXPECTATIONS—”

“Not helping,” Aria said with a small laugh, closing her laptop.

“C’mon,” Kian said. “Let’s walk. Get snacks. Maybe commit light academic fraud.”

“Define ‘light,’” Aria deadpanned.

“Anything under plagiarism,” he replied.

Ten minutes later, they were out of the building and walking through the cobbled street two blocks from campus. The cold air enough to flush their cheeks, but not enough to drive them away. A row of warm yellow bulbs swung above them from awnings, casting everything in a sleepy glow.

Footsteps echoed on the stones. Their coats brushed. Someone’s dog strutted past in a reindeer sweater—two months early and twice as proud.

Vendors called out halfheartedly, selling the last of their hot chocolate, sugar-dusted pastries, and roasted chestnuts. A busker played soft chords on a guitar near the corner. The music threaded faintly into the air, just enough to feel, not hear.

Reyhaan tucked his hands into his pockets, scarf snug around his throat. They hadn’t fixed anything—assignments still loomed like angry clouds—but the walk shook something free inside him. Like a muscle he hadn’t realized was tense.

He glanced at Aria. She’d been smiling more lately. Laughing, too. Maybe comfort could be slow–earned in crumbs and quiet nights and jokes that didn’t need punchlines.

Maya grabbed a chocolate-filled churro and let out a noise that was half moan, half religious experience. “This tastes like joy.”

Kian took one, bit into it, and nodded solemnly. “A spiritual experience.”

Aria shook her head, trying not to laugh. “I thought we were just going to walk.”

“You thought wrong,” Maya said with her mouth full. “This is now a soul-healing pilgrimage.”

Reyhaan smiled and lingered near a waffle stand before offering Aria one, still warm, wrapped in crisp paper.

“Here,” he said. “You need one too. For spiritual balance.”

She blinked. “You’re trying to bribe me into staying longer.”

“Is it working?”

Aria hesitated, then took the waffle. “I’ll stay ten more minutes.”

Maya gave her dramatic puppy eyes. “Make it fifteen?”

Kian added, “We’ll throw in free friendship for life.”

“Tempting,” Aria muttered. “But I already have that.”

And just like that, the weight cracked. The night didn’t feel like finals or pressure anymore—just four students wandering through golden light, sugar in their hands, and warmth tucked in their sleeves.

They passed a stall dusted with cinnamon steam and old wood. The vendor, an older man with a thick grey beard and the calm of someone who’d seen every form of student panic, leaned forward.

“Wait a minute.” His eyes locked on Reyhaan. “Aren’t you... Are you Reyhaan? From VYER?”

The world stuttered.

Reyhaan blinked. “Nope.”

The man squinted. “You look exactly like him.”

“I get that a lot,” Reyhaan said, suddenly straight-faced. “But I’m Michael. I’m Mexican. I sell socks on Tuesdays.”

Kian didn’t flinch. “We’re actually his band. Sock Pop.”

Maya nodded, biting the inside of her cheek. “Our debut album drops next spring. It’s called Thread Lightly.”

Aria tilted her head, utterly calm. “My stage name is Woolfie.”

The vendor stared at them like they’d just staged a collective hallucination. Eventually, he let out a slow chuckle. “Alright, alright. You kids are weird.”

“We prefer niche,” Reyhaan replied, grinning as they paid and walked away.

They didn’t last more than half a block.

The moment they turned into the quieter street that curved back toward campus, Maya broke first—laughing so hard she nearly dropped her churro.

“I can’t believe you said Michael!”

“He panicked,” Kian said between fits of laughter. “And then committed.”

“I feel bad for lying,” Reyhaan said, wiping his eyes. “But also... that was absurdly fun.”

“Exactly!” Maya nudged him. “Not everything needs to be heavy. You’re allowed to mess around.”

Aria, walking beside him, smiled gently. “You were really convincing, actually.”

“I should’ve said I was from Peru.”

She bumped her elbow lightly against his, then looked forward again with the quietest flicker of a smile. “Nah. You’re definitely a Michael. From Mexico.”

They kept laughing until they reached the university gates, looser now, like the cold couldn’t get in.

Reyhaan let the moment settle in his chest. It wasn’t the lie that warmed him. It was how easily they joined him in it—no questions, no fear of slipping the mask. Just laughter and light.

And when they finally stepped through the media lab doors again, the noise of the world dimmed.

But the ease lingered.

The lab smelled of old wires, long edits, and microwaved leftovers. The windows didn’t open—sealed shut with age and university budget priorities—and the heat from humming machines and overworked projectors made the space stuffy enough that both of them had shed their outer layers hours ago.

Aria sat beside him. Close, but not close enough to brush elbows. She wore a deep grey turtleneck, sleeves pushed up to her forearms. Her hair was tied back loosely, a few strands curling around her cheek. Reyhaan had rolled up the sleeves of his warm, checkered shirt, too. A bottle of water sat between them, long forgotten.

Most students had trickled out. Even Maya, who had left with a dramatic sigh to “rescue” Kian from his font crisis. Kian had raised his laptop and nodded like it was an emergency.

Now, just the two of them remained—final cuts of the tram scene open on the screen. Layering transitions, adjusting tone curves, and trimming audio peaks. The kind of work that disappeared when done right.

Outside, the sky had deepened into full night. A reflection of the edit screen shimmered faintly across the blackened window—blue, flickering, almost dreamlike. Time felt suspended.

“You know,” Reyhaan said, leaning back slightly as a render bar crawled forward, “I used to think being a film student would be a little... sexier.”

Aria glanced at him, amused. “You mean like, glamorous?”

“Exactly. I imagined intense debates, tortured monologues, café-lit editing suites. Not… this.” He gestured to the seven folders labeled final_final_tram_ver3_real.

She leaned back with a smirk, light from the screen catching the smile in her eyes. “You’re forgetting the existential breakdowns. That’s what gives us the edge.”

Reyhaan chuckled. “Ah, yes. When Professor Meijer said ‘Storyboard your feelings,’ he clearly meant ‘spiral with style.’”

They both laughed. Not loudly—just enough. A softer kind of tiredness settled between them. Not heavy, just worn smooth by the work.

The video paused. Aria leaned in, tapping the timeline. “Wait, go back. That cut’s too clean.”

He raised a brow. “You sound like you’re about to critique my haircut.”

She smiled without looking at him. “No, look—right here, between the second tram pass and when she turns her head. The moment slips too easily. We need a snag. Just for a breath.”

Reyhaan watched it again. Slowed it down. She was right. The beat was technically perfect—and emotionally flat.

“You have an ear for silence,” he said, quietly impressed.

She glanced sideways. “And you have an eye for stillness. Same thing, just opposite ends.”

There it was again. That quiet, seamless alignment. Like they understood things at the same frequency.

They kept working. She split her granola bar and handed him half. He gave her the last of his dried fruit. His lo-fi playlist had been looping for a while—soft strings, layered hum, ambient breath, and static. A few of his own field recordings tucked in, like memories stitched into sound.

He hadn’t told anyone. About the project. Or the voice. Or the studio he’d built in pieces while recovering.

But maybe someday.

“I’m still stuck on the screenwriting piece,” Aria murmured later, scribbling something in her notebook.

“Same assignment?”

She nodded. “We’re supposed to write a scene for a song that doesn’t have a video. I picked an old folk-fusion track. It shifts tone halfway—starts wistful, ends raw. Feels like disorientation and memory. Like... long train rides with fogged-up windows.”

Reyhaan turned toward her, eyebrows raised. “You say things like that and then expect people not to quote you.”

She shrugged, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “It’s just how my brain works.”

“Mine mostly comes up with bad metaphors and food comparisons.”

“Go on, then. What does this scene feel like?”

He gestured toward the screen. “This? Burnt toast left in the rain. Bitter, soggy, still oddly comforting.”

Aria laughed—genuine and unguarded. It hit him like warmth spreading from a match.

He watched her for a second longer than necessary.

She had this strange kind of presence. Like silence that listened back. It had been there since the first project meeting, and stronger since the cookie stall and the bonfire. But tonight, in this strange stillness, it tugged at him differently. Like a thread he hadn’t noticed had been tied to something soft.

She stretched slightly, tilting her head. “In my script, the characters are messy. Not tragic. Just... unfinished.”

He nodded. “And how do you write them like that?”

“I don’t try to fix them,” she said simply. “I let them stay jagged.”

He was quiet for a moment, then, “That’s harder than it sounds.”

“It’s more honest,” she said. “And a little more real.”

The pause that followed didn’t feel like silence. It felt like trust.

Reyhaan leaned forward again, hand hovering over the playback controls.

He glanced at her, about to ask—“Do you think it works now?” Maybe say her name, just once, to draw her back to check the snag.

But she wasn’t watching the screen anymore.

Her elbow rested on the desk; head tucked gently into her palm. Her eyes had drifted closed mid-thought.

She’d fallen asleep.

Her glasses had slipped slightly. A few loose strands of hair clung to her cheek in the pale screen light. Her breath was slow. Easy.

Something eased in him, too.

Quietly, Reyhaan stood. Pulled off his overshirt and draped it across her shoulders. Then, with practiced care, he removed her glasses and set them beside her laptop. He shifted her arm so she’d be more comfortable, tucking her scarf beneath her head like a pillow.

There.

He let the moment settle. Didn’t rush it.

Then he sat again, fine-tuned the final edits, labeled the folders clearly for her, and set the last render in motion.

Before leaving, he wrote on a small blue sticky note and placed it beside her glasses: “Render’s running. You were right about the snag. Felt more like real life this time. — Rey.”

The lo-fi track was still playing—a soft thread of melody folding over itself, like breath in a quiet room.

He stepped out into the night.

The cold met him with a dry wind. The campus lights blinked in amber halos along the footpath. His boots echoed faintly as he crossed toward the parking lot, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Somewhere behind him, a machine hummed, and a screen flickered. Somewhere behind him, someone still slept under borrowed warmth.

Aria’s words drifted back: I let them be broken without fixing them.

He thought of the track he’d been shaping. A soundscape built from imperfections—bike chains, glass taps, quiet stairwells. Things no one would notice unless they listened for them.

Maybe he could tell her. About the voice. The diagnosis. The part of him that had gone quiet long before the semester started.

Not tonight.

But soon.

Because tonight, he didn’t feel unfinished.

Just still.

And that was enough.