September light spilled over the slate-gray rooftops, soft and hesitant, as Aria crossed the street. Last night's rain still glistened on the pavement, washing the city out to dry, while the narrow lanes began to stir. Bicycles whispered by; reflections danced in the canal water, rippling with the occasional glide of a boat.

It was the kind of morning that felt like a page half-written—clean, open, waiting.

Aria adjusted the strap of her tote, boots tapping a slow rhythm on the walkway. Even now, in her third year, these days always arrived with that quiet, low-frequency thrum: the ache of something unfinished.

The university came into view, ivy trailing its aged stone. Around her, the campus woke in a flurry of rolling suitcase wheels and overlapping introductions.

Her name badge swung with the rhythm of her stride, the words 'Student Volunteer: Aria' catching briefly in the sun. She hitched her bag higher, the frayed strap tugging at the soft sleeve of her oversized flannel—the one she always reached for when the season hovered between summer and something colder. Her glasses slid down her nose. A familiar inconvenience nudged back up with a practiced motion.

Near the campus café, the scent met her first—a warm embrace of dark roast, vanilla, and a nameless sweetness. It curled around her like an invitation, momentarily drowning out the chatter of students and the squeak of wheels over cobblestone. Her stomach gave a small, hopeful growl, a hushed reminder of breakfast skipped.

She shifted her grip on the clipboard tucked under one arm. The check-in sheets were already crinkled at the edges, softened from a morning's use. Just as she took a step toward the promise of caffeine, a sharp buzz against her palm stopped her.

Maya: Bringing our usual boost and chaos on my way. AND gossip. Wait for me near the lecture hall.

Aria smiled. Every semester began this way. The steady return of known things—except, underneath, a flicker always lingered. A question she hadn't answered yet, whispering, Are you sure you're still on the right path?

Near the front steps of the hall, she slowed, observing the cluster of first-years with a careful blend of interest and distance. They clutched flyers and bags with the edge of panic like a second skin.

She understood the look all too well—not knowing where you fit, hoping no one noticed.

She had worn that same expression once. Maybe, on some days, she still did. The difference now was the routine, the soft pulse of belonging that told her where to go even when the melody felt new.

"Aria!"

A lilting voice rang through the air. She turned instinctively. Maya arrived like a weather system wrapped in denim, balancing two coffee cups, her expression unreadable but eyes sharp with meaning. Her signature curly hair was piled in a messy high bun as always.

"For you, milady."

Aria raised her clipboard in mock grace. "Bless you."

"You're welcome."

Maya handed her the cup, then scanned the crowd, lips twitching. "So. There's a rumor."

"Of course there is."

Maya leaned in as they moved towards the check-in table. "Someone big is showing up today. Like, world-famous kind of big."

"Famous? Who?"

Maya didn't answer. Instead, she tilted her chin towards the crowd.

Aria followed the direction of her friend's gaze, brows drawing together—then paused.

The shift wasn't immediate. It crept in slowly, like a change in barometric pressure. A hush beneath the usual chatter. Movement seemed too synchronized to be accidental—heads turning, shoulders straightening, phones lifted just slightly.

At first, she didn't look; she felt it.

A peculiar suspension of the atmosphere, not silence, but a subtle holding of breath. Like the air had folded in on itself for a moment, waiting. The kind of pause that doesn't stop time, but tugs at it gently—just enough to notice.

And then, her eyes followed the ripple.

He moved through the crowd like he'd always known its shape. Unhurried, head slightly lowered, he seemed to be listening to something quieter than the noise surrounding him. Dark, wavy hair curled at the edges, tousled by wind rather than a mirror. A loose hoodie, sleeves tugged halfway down; hands buried in pockets of soft gray cotton. Black jeans, worn-in boots. Nothing about him called for attention.

Yet, the air seemed to shimmer around him.

Reyhaan.

The name floated to the front of her mind uninvited, familiar as a lyric hummed in an empty kitchen.

He didn't look lost, nor did he look like he was performing. He simply seemed like someone who didn't need to try to belong. Somehow, that made people look twice.

Aria's grip on her paper cup tightened. The warmth grounded her, though it didn't quite steady her. She didn't move, didn't speak. Just watched—or rather, registered.

She knew that face—not in the loud, poster-on-the-wall way, but in a softer sense. The kind you remember at 2 a.m., when a lyric keeps you afloat. But here, in a hoodie and boots, slipping past suitcase wheels and half-finished conversations, he wasn't a headline.

He was just... here.

Aria took a sip she didn't quite taste. Beside her, she felt Maya go still. "He's coming our way," she whispered, the words escaping before she could reel them in.

Reyhaan stopped in front of the table. Shoulders relaxed, the hood of his sweatshirt pushed back slightly, he took in the check-in sheets, the flyers, the students waiting. Then his gaze flicked to her.

Only for a moment. But something in it held. Not recognition or curiosity. Just... presence.

He reached for the pen to sign in.

"Reyhaan," he said simply, writing the name like it was any other. His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It slipped out gently, like the last note of a song meant for one person, not a crowd.

Aria handed him a welcome packet without a word, the edges of the folder brushing her palm.

"Thanks," his mouth tugged into something close to a smile.

She caught herself nodding, a quiet reflex. "Welcome to the chaos."

Reyhaan huffed a soft laugh; the sound caught between amusement and something more cautious. "Looking forward to it."

And then, just as easily, he turned and walked toward the building behind her, welcome packet tucked under his arm like he hadn't just sent the courtyard into a hushed kind of spin.

Maya let out a stunned breath.

"Okay," she muttered. "So. He's enrolled. That's... that's a thing."

Aria took another sip, composing herself. The warmth hit her chest like a soft reset. "He probably wants a normal year."

"Aren't we all." Maya's eyes still followed him as he slipped through the door. Then, a beat later she nudged Aria gently with her elbow. "You handled that well, by the way. Not a single swoon. I'm impressed."

"He's just a student."

Maya snorted. "A student who's currently the face of six billboards in Amsterdam." She gave her a look. "One of them practically waves at you when you cross Leidseplein."

Aria shook her head, pretending to focus on the clipboard again, even though her eyes flicked involuntarily toward the building entrance. "Well, I'm not walking around staring at ads."

"Mm-hm," Maya said, sipping from her cup like it sealed the conversation, though her grin lingered.

By the time they entered the lecture hall, Professor de Boer was already starting the welcome speech. His tweed blazer looked the same as last semester; so did the half-sincere smile. Words floated by: curiosity, discovery, community. Aria let them pass as she moved quietly between rows, helping students find sections, handing out misplaced kits, smoothing over confusion with a practiced nod. She didn't look for Reyhaan. But she felt the buzz—the whispers hovering just beneath polite silence, the glances aimed a little too long at one corner of the room.

And beneath it all, a small tug she refused to name.

After the speech, the day blurred into a montage of schedules and introductions, laughter rising like bubbles and bursting midair. Faces, names, questions.

By the time Aria stepped into the Storytelling in Global Cinema classroom, her clipboard replaced by a laptop and notebook, the afternoon had already settled in. Her shoulders ached. Her brain hummed. But the rhythm was familiar now. Safe.

Then she saw him.

Reyhaan was already seated by the window. The first one in. His posture was loose but inward—one leg stretched, one tucked, as if curled around some silent thought. Sunlight pooled at his feet. He leafed through the syllabus without reading; one earbud dangled like he'd forgotten it was there.

He wasn't just early. He looked like he had come for the quiet itself, as if stillness had called him in before the noise returned.

Aria slowed her steps. Her eyes landed on him for a second too long before she blinked away, veering toward a safe zone. Her usual seat—third row, aisle—suddenly made too much sense.

Not too near, not too far.

A moment later, Maya slumped into the chair beside her with the familiar hint of her peach lip balm.

"You didn't think I'd let you sit through this alone, right?" she said, shrugging off her jacket.

Aria let a smile surface as she flipped through her half-filled notebook. Highlights, post-its, and scattered scribbles layered the pages—along with a few quieter uncertainties.

"Also, you're welcome for the front row view of our guest star," Maya added, doodling on a torn page. "And moral support. Obviously."

Aria rolled her eyes. "It's a graded class, Maya."

"I'm here for the emotional depth... and maybe a handsome distraction."

The classroom filled slowly—a shuffling mix of old and new students, paper rustling, the click of pens. Then, a single sharp clap sounded.

"I'm Professor Cleo, and I'll be taking this class for the semester." The woman in tweed with shock-white curls and sneakers spoke with surprising energy. "But before we get buried in theory, let's begin with something simple. And fun." She scanned the room with warm intensity. "Not your names—those I'll remember in due time. Let's start where stories begin. With feeling."

She reached for a marker, turning to the whiteboard. Her handwriting was quick, slanted, purposeful: Why do certain films linger?

She capped the marker with a soft click.

"I want each of you to name a film from outside your own culture that stayed with you. And tell us why. Doesn't have to be fancy. Just real."

The class hesitated—a rustle of pages, glances exchanged. Aria's fingers tapped against her notebook. She liked the question. It was the kind that didn't ask for the right answer, just the true one.

Responses trickled in: Parasite. Pan's Labyrinth. The Lunchbox. Professor Cleo smiled—small, approving.

Aria glanced sideways. Maya's brow was slightly furrowed, the end of her pen tapping thoughtfully against her lip. Reyhaan—three rows ahead—remained still, elbow propped, his gaze steady on the board. Her mind flicked back to his expression outside—that muted kind of stillness—and she wondered what film might have left a mark on someone like him. Someone who had lived inside stories most of his life.

"Who's next?" Professor Cleo uncapped the marker like a challenge. "Surprise me."

Aria raised her hand—not too high, just enough.

"Little Forest. A Korean film," she said, her voice even. "It's about a woman returning home after things fall apart in the city. Starting over, even if she didn't know what came next. She cooks, tends to the garden, slows down. Nothing 'big' happens. But it made me want to breathe slower."

The room quieted. Even Maya looked up from scribbling on a torn page.

Professor Cleo tilted her head, considering. "That's exactly what we'll be looking at. Not just what stories say, but how they make us feel. Lovely choice."

Aria gave a small nod and lowered her hand, fingers grazing the edge of her notebook. A few seconds later, Reyhaan leaned forward. Arms folded lightly, his voice came calm, almost reflective.

"Begin Again," he said. "There's this moment where two people share a song through split headphones. That part stuck. No flash. Just... music, the city, and a connection that didn't need words. It felt—" he paused, choosing the right shape for the thought "—like someone reaching out when you're loneliest."

No one spoke.

Aria felt the words settle inside her. Not for what he said, but how he said it. Like quiet wasn't emptiness, but intention.

Her gaze drifted before she could stop it. When her eyes found his, he was already looking.

Their eyes held—not long, not lingering—just enough. It was the kind of recognition that doesn't ask for explanation. No words were exchanged, yet something passed between them.

The professor smiled, her admiration flickering between Aria and Reyhaan. "Interesting. Two quiet stories. Same tenderness. Both about healing. That's the power of global cinema—it lets us find ourselves in unfamiliar mirrors."

Reyhaan leaned back slightly, voice soft. "Sometimes music and silence say the same thing."

A brief hush followed. Pens scratched across paper; someone let out a sigh. The class moved on, but Aria's mind lingered. She jotted something in the corner of her notebook: It's strange—meeting someone you admired from a distance, only to realize they're not larger than life. Just here. Maybe even a little lost. Maybe looking for a way back. Like you once were.

She flipped to the last page of her schedule. Except for Wednesdays, she and Reyhaan would be in most classes together: Storytelling in Global Cinema, Directing for Screening, Podcast Narrative, and Film Club.

She stared at the list, pen tapping the paper.

Maybe silence wasn't emptiness. Maybe it was just the beginning.