The semester didn't end with a bang; it simply exhaled.

Deadlines dissolved into a strange, unmetered time. Sleep schedules drifted. Laundry piled up. And just as the damp chill of December deepened, turning the shop windows into glittering grids of amber light, Christmas arrived.

Maya had left for Zwolle the morning prior, hugging them all with enough force to crack ribs before vanishing onto a train. That left the trio: Reyhaan, Kian, and Aria.

Gravity, or perhaps just the promise of a working oven, pulled them to Kian's apartment.

The room was a testament to enthusiasm over engineering. Streamers looped across the ceiling in uneven swoops; fairy lights were knotted in the corner like a glowing nest of wire. A fake tree listed dangerously to the left, looking less like a festive decoration and more like a shrubbery that had given up on life.

"Why is the tree doing yoga?" Aria asked, nudging a crooked ornament with one finger.

"It's expressive," Kian countered from the floor, where he was wrestling a box of tinsel. "You're just intimidated by its posture."

"I'm intimidated by the probability of it crushing Tuffy."

"Rude," Kian muttered.

Tuffy sat in the center of the rug, wearing a red-and-white elf hat—Aria's doing—with the frozen dignity of a creature plotting a slow, painful revenge.

Reyhaan watched from the couch, amused. "I give her two minutes before that hat becomes a casualty."

"One," Aria corrected.

On cue, Tuffy flung the felt cap off with a disgusted flick of her head and stalked away.

"She's the only one here with any sartorial standards," Reyhaan noted.

"Excuse you," Kian said, extending a leg. "Snowflake socks."

"They have holes," Aria pointed out.

"Ventilation."

The afternoon dissolved into a cooking project that felt less like culinary prep and more like a contact sport.

In the kitchen, Kian and Aria moved with the bickering familiarity of siblings who had been sharing a stove for decades rather than days.

"No, garlic after the onions," Aria insisted, intercepting the pan.

"They're going to the same destination!"

"Yes, but they have different arrival times."

"Why are you like this?"

Reyhaan leaned against the counter, peeling carrots with rhythmic precision. He felt like the bass player in a chaotic jazz improv—keeping the tempo while the horns went wild. "This is like a reality show where the prize is not getting food poisoning," he observed.

Aria turned to him, brandishing a spatula. "Please intervene before he turns the sauce into a biological weapon."

"I am the sauce," Kian declared, tossing a tea towel over his shoulder.

Despite the noise, there was a cadence to it. One passed, one stirred. Aria moved through the small kitchen, wrapped in a blanket like a monk's robe, barefoot, stirring the pot with a focus that bordered on meditative.

Reyhaan watched her hands. She measured spice not by spoons, but by instinct—a pinch here, a shake there—stitching flavor into the heat. Her brow was furrowed, but the tension he usually saw in her jaw was gone.

"You okay?" she asked, sensing his gaze.

He rested his chin in his palm. "Just impressed."

"With what?"

"You. You look like a wizard critiquing a potion."

She rolled her eyes. "Blankets are powerful."

"So I see."

Dinner was a triumph of improvisation: slightly scorched vegetables (Kian), perfectly herbed pasta (Aria), and warm cider that tasted of apples and winter. They ate under the blinking fairy lights, patching Maya in via video call.

She appeared on screen wrapped in shawls, looking like a festive caterpillar. "I swear, my parents' house smells entirely of cardamom. I've been ambushed."

"You love it," Aria said.

"I miss you idiots," Maya sighed. "And Tuffy."

Tuffy yawned in the background, unimpressed.

Reyhaan raised his mug. "To surviving finals and Kian's fire hazards."

"To next year," Maya toasted. "May it be less traumatic."

When the screen went dark, the apartment settled. It wasn't an empty silence; it was the comfortable hum of full stomachs and tired eyes.

Reyhaan's phone buzzed in his pocket. A series of rapid vibrations.

Silas: Holiday re-release drops tonight. We're doing a casual live tomorrow. Just talking. No performance. You in?

Lucian: Tell Aria I still want those cookies. Also, miss you.

Jay: We saved your mic stand. And your spot.

He stared at the screen. The text wasn't a demand; it was an open door. A pulse of warmth spread through his chest, competing with the anxiety that always flared when he thought about the studio.

Needing air, he stepped out onto the balcony. The cold was sudden and sharp, a shock against the indoor heat. Below, the rooftops of the city were frosted silver under a low sky. Church bells rang in the distance, out of sync with the traffic.

The glass door slid open behind him.

Aria stepped out. She held a plate, her blanket still wrapped tight around her shoulders.

"More pasta," she said, offering it.

"You're going to spoil me," he said, taking the plate. The warmth of the ceramic seeped into his frozen fingers.

"Good."

She leaned against the railing beside him. Their elbows brushed occasionally.

"My band's doing a livestream tomorrow," he said, the words forming clouds in the cold air. "Just talking. No music. Silas asked if I'd join."

She looked out at the skyline. The city lights reflected in her eyes. "So?"

"I don't know. It's been months. I haven't seen them. I haven't... tried." He traced the rim of the plate. "I'm not the same. The guy they knew—he could walk into a room and own it. I don't know if I can do that anymore. I don't know if that version of me fits."

Aria didn't respond right away, but turned to face him. Her expression was serious, stripped of the earlier playfulness.

"Maybe that version wasn't the only one that mattered."

He looked at her.

"You changed," she said. "But that doesn't mean you lost everything. Maybe you're just carrying it differently."

He let the thought sit. It was heavy, but not crushing.

"I'm scared I won't connect," he admitted. "What if I walk in there and I'm a stranger to the people who know me best?"

"That makes sense," she said gently. "But they saved your mic stand. They didn't forget who you are. And I don't think they're asking you to be the old Reyhaan. They're just asking for you."

She paused, pulling the blanket tighter. "And if it doesn't feel right, you can leave. But if a part of you wants to try—then maybe that's enough."

The wind picked up, rattling the bare branches of a nearby tree. Reyhaan looked back at the glowing mosaic of the city.

"I think," he said slowly, "I've spent so long worrying about what I lost, I didn't think about what I might bring now. Even if it's quieter."

Aria smiled. It was a proud look. "Exactly."

Reyhaan looked at her again, and the cold disappeared. Not because it wasn't real, but because warmth had arrived beside him.

"You always say the right thing."

"I don't," she replied. "I just say what I mean."

"That's why it lands."

They stood there for a while longer, sharing the pasta, watching the night deepen. Beside him, wrapped in wool and silence, Aria felt like a focal point—a place where the blurry edges of the world sharpened into something he could understand.

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

Reyhaan stood outside the grey door.

He'd worn the uniform—cap low, glasses on—automatically, even though the hallway of the company building was empty. It was a reflex, like checking for exits. Most people passing through wouldn't guess it was VYER's main practice wing—not with how discreet it looked from the outside.

Laughter bled through the soundproofing. He knew that laugh. Jay's bark, Ilan's low chuckle. The rhythm of it hit him in the chest, a physical resonance.

But what if he couldn't find the rhythm this time? What if they noticed the shift?

He waited. Breathed. Then pushed the door open.

The room was brighter than he remembered. New panels, upgraded monitors. But the couch in the corner was the same—crooked armrest, faded throw. The shelf still held the chaotic shrine of anime figures and awards.

Lucian looked up first. He moved fast, crossing the room in three strides. He wore what only he could pull off: plaid trousers, a mustard hoodie layered under a relaxed tan coat, and striped socks peeking from slipper-like loafers. Somehow, it all worked.

"Man, you took forever. I was about to fly over there and kidnap you myself," he said, pulling Reyhaan into a hug that knocked the wind out of him.

Reyhaan laughed, patting his back. "That would've caused a scene."

Jay spun around from a tripod, already grinning. He was wearing a velvet green blazer. "Don't encourage him. I had matching kidnapping outfits planned."

Silas rolled his eyes from the kitchenette. "He really did."

"And vision," Jay added, pointing dramatically.

Ilan stood by the mic rack. He paused, just looking. It was a searching gaze, checking for cracks. Then he smiled—a slow, genuine expression—and stepped forward to hug him.

"Good to see you, Rey."

"Good to be back." Reyhaan took off his cap and glasses, tossing them onto the console.

Silas handed him a mug. "Still no singing?"

"Not yet. But I'll talk. I missed the talking."

"So you're management now," Lucian teased.

"Guess so."

Jay grinned. "Reyhaan: the new era. The quiet menace."

They fell into the old dynamic instantly. Reyhaan dropped his bag in his usual spot and sank into the middle of the couch.

"You staying a few days?" Ilan asked.

"Yeah. Back at my apartment. It feels... strange. Walking into a space that's been paused for six months."

Lucian leaned against the desk. "We missed having you here. The place is too quiet without your overthinking."

Reyhaan looked around the room. "This room remembers. Even when I don't."

Jay flopped down next to him. "Okay, spill. What's UNI like? Bad coffee? Intellectual snobbery?"

"Some snobbery," Reyhaan admitted. "But the people... my group is good. Quietly brilliant."

Lucian smiled. "Like someone we know."

"They remind me of us," Reyhaan said. "Less chaos. More rhythm."

Silas sipped his tea. "You talk about them like they grounded you."

"They did. I didn't expect to find that in a classroom."

Lucian nudged his knee. "And the girl? Aria? The cookies?"

Jay perked up. "The baking genius? Is she real?"

Reyhaan fought a smile and lost. "Yeah. She's real."

"Good," Silas said. "Glad you had someone looking out for you."

"A few someones," Reyhaan said.

They nodded at that.

"Okay!" Jay clapped his hands. "Enough feelings. Let's be charming for the internet."

The fairy lights behind the mics flickered on. The room bathed in gold like it was holding its breath, and the couch was straightened as best as it could be. Camera tested. Audio synced. Comments already flooding in as the live countdown ticked.

Jay waved at the lens as it went live. "Surprise, we're not dead!"

"Just evolving," Lucian corrected.

The questions rolled in. Favorite snacks. Tour rumors. The chat exploded with emojis every now and then. It was familiar, but different.

When a question about the tour came up, Silas deflected. "No promises. But we're talking."

Reyhaan leaned forward with the mic in his hand, feeling the weight of it. The hum of the live feed was in his ear. He wasn't performing. He was just answering.

"Something's in the works," he said. "We're not done."

The chat stream accelerated.

What song haunts you?

"'Glasslight,'" Ilan said.

"'Dawn and Echo,'" Lucian added.

You seem closer.

Jay smiled. "That's because we are. Therapy and figuring out how to cook rice."

The stream ended an hour later with final waves, a dramatic close-up from Jay, and Ilan saying quietly into the mic, "Thanks for waiting. We're still here."

When the lights dimmed. The room exhaled. They sank back into the worn couch and mismatched cushions like the rhythm had never left.

"Crushed it," Jay announced.

Reyhaan checked his phone. A message waited.

Aria: You were good. Calm. Funny. Steady.

Reyhaan: Didn't sing. Just talked.

Aria: You showed up. Not as the Reyhaan from before – but as you, now. And that was more than enough. I'm proud of you.

He tucked the phone beside him, unread messages blinking against the fabric.

A deep breath unspooled from his lungs.

Lucian kicked his foot lightly. "You good?"

"Yeah," Reyhaan said, staring at the ceiling.

Silas hummed a melody near the sink. Jay sketched on a napkin. Ilan coiled a cable without urgency.

The room held him.

Reyhaan closed his eyes. He wasn't who he used to be. He wasn't sure who he was becoming. But he was here.

Because this?

This felt like a beginning disguised as a return.