The bakery smelled of yeast and burnt sugar—a Sunday morning scent that hadn't changed in twenty years.

Reyhaan's mother weighed two loaves in her hands, testing the crusts. One seeded multigrain, the other a honeyed brioche. A few steps away, her husband peered at a tray of sugar-free biscuits with the scrutiny of a man inspecting a building foundation.

A memory surfaced, unbidden. Years ago, Reyhaan and Ayaan would trail them on these errands. Ayaan always pressed his face to the pastry glass, leaving smudges. Reyhaan, steadier, would circle the cookie counter with serious intent, scanning for the orange blossom and pistachio kind.

"You buy them, but they sit in the jar for a week," she remarked, placing the multigrain in her basket.

"That's because you hide the jar behind the tea boxes," her husband countered without turning.

She hid a smile and moved toward the register.

A man stepped up beside her. Mid-thirties, clean-shaven, wearing a canvas jacket that had seen better days. He reached for a rye loaf, then paused.

"Excuse me." His voice was polite, but the angle of his gaze was too direct. "I hope I'm not mistaken, but... you're Reyhaan's mother, aren't you?"

Her grip on the basket handle tightened. The air in the shop suddenly felt thinner.

"I think I saw you once," the man continued, easy and conversational. "At a show? Years ago. You were there for VYER."

She didn't answer immediately. She shifted her weight, turning her shoulder slightly to create a barrier. "That was a long time ago."

"True." He nodded, as if sharing a private joke. "I caught glimpses of him again last year. During his break. He was back at university, wasn't he?"

Her husband was already at the queue, back turned. She debated calling him over, but held her ground.

"There was something in the news then," the man mused, tapping his chin. "I forgot the details. He was wearing one of those customized hoodies. Blue, I think. With a quote on the back. It seemed... different. Do you remember it?"

She gave a sharp, practiced shake of her head. "I'm afraid I don't follow celebrity news. Excuse me."

She stepped away, briskly closing the distance to the register.

"Lovely to see you," he called after her. "Sorry if I disturbed anything."

As she reached for her wallet, a sound cut through the bakery's hum—sharp, metallic. A set of keys jingling in the man's hand. Distinct. Deliberate.

She froze. The sound landed with a weight she couldn't explain, triggering a warning bell deep in her gut. She glanced back.

The man was gone.

"They didn't have the rye?" her husband asked, noticing her empty hands.

She looked down. She had left the bread in the basket near the shelf.

"I changed my mind," she said, her voice tighter than she intended. "Let's just go."

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

Aria hit the backspace key. The cursor ate the line of dialogue, leaving wite space in its wake.

She stared at the screen. Better.

The office hummed with the mid-afternoon lull—the whir of hard drives, the rhythmic clack of Jasper's mechanical keyboard. But Aria was locked into the document before her. Draft Three.

She had spent the morning resisting the urge to explain. The characters on the bench wanted to talk about missed calls and apologies. In Draft One, she let them. In Draft Two, she made them whisper. Now, in Draft Three, she made them stop.

She highlighted a paragraph of exposition—the character explaining why he looked away—and deleted it.

Now, he just looked away.

The tension on the page pulled tight. It wasn't empty anymore; it was heavy.

"You're staring at that screen like you want to fight it."

Aria jolted. Lina stood by her desk, expression unreadable.

"I was just..." Aria trailed off, minimizing the window. "Dropping the files."

"Let me see."

Lina didn't wait for permission; she leaned over, scrolling through the changes. Aria's pulse ticked in her throat. She braced for the critique—too sparse, too vague.

Lina read it once. Then scrolled back up and read it again.

"You cut the apology," she noted.

"It felt... forced," Aria said, finding her voice. "They wouldn't say it. Not yet. The friction is in the waiting."

Lina straightened, adjusting her glasses. She looked at Aria, measuring.

"Most people try to fix the scene. You let it stay broken."

Aria exhaled, a knot loosening between her shoulders. There was no performance in the compliment, but it settled in her chest like something deeply understood.

"Here." Lina dropped a new folder onto the desk, which Aria hadn't noticed until now. "New episode. Second act is thin. See if you can give it the same weight on screen."

Aria took the file. The cardboard felt substantial in her hands.

It was trust.

Tangible proof that she wasn't just filling a seat—she was shaping the story.

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

She opened the timeline.

The frame froze on a dim room. Two figures. One by the sink, one by the door.

Aria put on her headphones, drowning out the office. She played the clip.

The audio was raw—ambient noise, the shuffle of shoes on floorboards. The character by the door didn't leave. He lingered, hand hovering near the frame. He didn't speak. He just occupied the space.

Aria zoomed in on the timeline, trimming a millisecond of dead air.

She watched the playback. The character looked back—a glance that lasted less than a second.

Aria's hand stilled on the mouse.

She knew that look.

It hit her with the force of a physical blow. She wasn't watching a stranger on a screen anymore. She was seeing her own living room. The dusk falling over the city. Reyhaan sitting on the opposite end of the couch, saying nothing, asking for nothing, just being there.

Sometimes it's not what you show. It's what you let them sense.

He had told her that. And she had thought he was talking about film.

She rewound the clip. Played it again. The look. The hesitation. The choice to stay when he could have left.

Her chest didn't hurt. It expanded.

The realization wasn't a question. It was a memory she was finally allowing herself to label. The way he remembered her coffee order. The way he stood between her and the crowd. The way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't paying attention.

She had been waiting for a grand declaration. But love, she realized, staring at the waveform on her screen, wasn't a speech. It was the person who stayed in the room when the dialogue ran out.

She locked her phone screen, hiding his name. The ache in her ribs wasn't fear anymore. It was the pressure of something growing.