The rest of the week unfolded like layers in a film sequence—edits, log sheets, quiet moments of focus. Aria fell into rhythm slowly, still cautious but not overwhelmed. She learned when Lina preferred quiet mornings and when Jasper was most likely to spiral into 90s film trivia. Dev became a reliable guide through archival processes, and Chiara occasionally dropped memes into the team chat with worrying precision.

Aria arrived early most mornings, rereading her assignments twice before starting. She asked questions when needed and kept a to-do list that grew more detailed with each passing day. She double-checked her subtitle timings, triple-checked the metadata fields.

And still, she slipped up.

On Thursday evening, she’d uploaded the subtitle file for the director’s preview and misaligned a key scene’s timing. A gentle emotional beat now landed too early. Worse, she’d linked it to the wrong language template. She only noticed the mismatch while reviewing the file at her apartment that evening.

Her heart gave a small jolt. She sat still, waiting for the familiar rush of panic to take hold—the fear of disappointing, of not being good enough. But it didn’t come, not fully. Just a pause. Then her fingers found their way back to the keyboard.

She typed out a message to Lina:

Hi – just caught a mistake in the subtitle file for Segment 4 (wrong language tag). I can re-export and upload the corrected version tonight, if that’s okay.

The reply came ten minutes later:

Thanks for catching that, Aria. You saved us from a quality check disaster. Go ahead and fix – appreciate it.

Relieved, she reopened the project and began to fix it—frame by frame, carefully syncing voice to word, frame to beat.

She worked quietly until the replacement file finished rendering. The glow from her desk lamp pooled softly over her notes and keyboard. Outside, a tram passed with its usual hum, distant but steady.

The waveform spikes pulsed across the bottom of the screen, and she found herself remembering how Reyhaan once adjusted the rainfall layer to soften behind dialogue during a winter edit. Not the same project. But the same quiet commitment to get things right. The same calm she’d come to recognize in him—in the way he trusted the work to speak before he ever did.

She smiled faintly.

When she glanced at her phone later, she saw a missed call.

Reyhaan.

She texted:

Sorry – fixing a timestamp mess. I’ll catch you tomorrow?

The reply came just as the file finished exporting.

Reyhaan: Tomorrow comes with cookies. Consider it your reward.

Aria tapped the screen lightly, amused. Her reflection in the darkened window looked tired but content.

She wasn’t fluent in the rhythm of her work yet. But she was learning—frame by frame. Like building a scene, layer by patient layer.

It had been a week since her first hesitant walk through the glass doors of Vireo House.

Since she'd met colleagues with fast-talking warmth and project folders stacked higher than her confidence. The pace hadn’t slowed. If anything, it picked up—faster scenes to subtitle, tighter edit windows, one documentary merging into another like overlapping voices.

And yet, tonight was still.

Post-dinner, the apartment was dim except for the warm circle of her desk lamp. Aria sat curled in her chair, headphones on, cross-legged, her hands paused above the keys. The film scene playing on-screen was spare and atmospheric—two characters in a slow, rain-drenched conversation. She nudged a subtitle a fraction forward, adjusted the spacing, then played it back again. And again.

The soundtrack beneath the scene was minimal—ambient tones, something between distant chimes and the hush of wind. It should’ve felt empty. But it held something.

Her mind drifted.

“Still waiting on those cookies,” Reyhaan’s voice echoed from two nights ago, lazy with fondness. “But I can wait a little longer. After all, greatness takes time.”

He’d said it with a half-smile in his voice, she could tell. She hadn’t replied with more than a reaction emoji at the time. Not because she didn’t want to. Just—everything felt slightly out of sync. She was still learning the language of this new routine. Still memorizing names, filing systems, coffee preferences. Still catching her own mistakes before anyone else did.

He’d noticed, though, in his own way. Reyhaan had reminded her to eat lunch the next afternoon. A short, ridiculous text:

“Feed the editor, not just the timeline.”

And then a follow-up, when she hadn’t replied:

“Zoom out. Blink. Stare at something that isn’t your screen for five seconds.”

She’d blinked now, just remembering it.

Her eyes were dry, her shoulders stiff. She closed them briefly, letting the music play through. This time, not to analyze. Just to feel.

She imagined him again—half-smiling, half-judging. “Strings again?”

But then maybe he’d say nothing. Just listen. Maybe he’d have liked this one.

She opened her eyes and shook her head lightly. “Focus, Aria,” she whispered, not unkindly.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She clicked back a few seconds. The subject in the doc was talking—something about layering and patience. Aria adjusted the subtitle timing again, then smoothed the grammar.

But something had shifted. Or maybe it had been shifting all along—quietly, gradually—in the way he reminded her to eat, in the silence that followed when she didn’t reply, yet never felt guilty for it.

The apartment felt more lived-in now. Her things slowly finding places, the rooms learning her rhythms. And yet, tonight, with the windows shut and the air still, she found her thoughts wandering—tracking a voice that wasn’t in the footage.

She tried to remember when it had started—this habit of thinking of him in moments like these. Not in fireworks, but in echoes. A laugh recalled. A pause filled. A quiet reassurance tucked into text bubbles.

He hadn’t asked for anything. Not really. Just cookies. Just patience. Just… updates, if she had any.

She played the scene again. Saved the project file.

Then just sat there, for a minute longer, listening to the quiet hum of the night and the not-quite-absence of someone who somehow still lingered between frames.

Somewhere outside, a bike rattled down the cobbled street, its chain catching briefly.