The theatre was already full by the time they found their seats. It was the kind of first-day crowd Mumbai reserved for rare moments—when something felt like an event rather than just another release. People were louder than usual, conversations overlapping, the air thick with expectation and the smell of buttered popcorn that had been reheated too many times.
Ahan sank into his seat, stretching his legs forward slightly, eyes scanning the hall without really seeing it. Zayn, on the other hand, looked like he might combust. He adjusted himself three times, craned his neck to look at the screen even though the ads hadn't started, and clutched his popcorn tub like it was ceremonial.
"You know," Zayn said, leaning in, voice low but excited, "this is history."
"It's a movie," Ahan replied. "Relax."
"It's not just a movie. It's a launch. Big banners don't gamble like this unless they're sure."
The lights dimmed. The chatter softened into a collective hush. When the film finally began, it didn't take long.
The screen exploded into color, music, movement—and then him.
Hrithik Roshan filled the frame with an ease that was unsettling. Not just good-looking. Effortlessly so. There was a confidence in the way he moved, a kind of physical certainty that didn't look rehearsed. The theatre reacted instantly—whistles, claps, audible gasps. People leaned forward as if proximity alone might make them part of the moment.
Zayn didn't take his eyes off the screen. He leaned toward Ahan, whispering with reverence, "There. That's it."
Ahan didn't respond.
"He's your match," Zayn added, tilting his head slightly toward the screen. "Finally."
Ahan's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He hated that he noticed it at all—the way the camera loved Hrithik, the way the lighting obeyed him, the way the audience surrendered without resistance. A familiar, uncomfortable sensation crept up his chest. Jealousy, sharp and unwelcome.
Zayn caught it. Of course he did.
"Oh," Zayn said softly, amused. "You felt that."
"Don't," Ahan muttered, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth.
For a few minutes, they watched in silence. The film flowed, music swelling, romance unfolding with the exaggerated innocence of the era. Then Zayn's tone shifted. The excitement drained out of it, replaced by something careful.
"Remember that film I mentioned?" he said quietly.
Ahan nodded, still chewing. "The coming-of-age thing."
"Yeah. Two fresh faces."
"Mm."
"It's real," Zayn continued. "Not gossip. Tips is backing it."
Ahan's hand froze midway to the popcorn tub.
The screen blurred slightly as his attention snapped inward. He turned slowly toward Zayn, a sense of foreboding settling in his stomach.
"They're holding open auditions," Zayn said.
Ahan stared at him.
Zayn swallowed. "I might have… sent your photos."
The sound of the film continued around them—music, dialogue, applause—but for Ahan, everything narrowed to a sharp, focused point.
"You did what?" he whispered.
Zayn winced. "Before you say anything—"
Ahan's fingers tightened around the popcorn tub. For a brief, dangerous second, it looked like it might fly across the row. He stopped himself, breathing through his nose.
Not here. Not now.
"How did you even get my photos?" Ahan asked, voice low, controlled. "Don't tell me—"
Zayn's expression answered before his mouth did.
"The ones you took when you were 'practicing,'" Ahan finished flatly.
Zayn nodded, guilty but stubborn. "You were broke. You helped me."
Ahan looked back at the screen, not because he was interested, but because he needed somewhere to put his eyes.
"Did they respond?" he asked slowly.
Zayn gulped. "They shortlisted you."
That did it.
Ahan stood up abruptly, the seat snapping back with a dull thud. He shoved the popcorn into Zayn's chest.
"I'm done," he said, already stepping into the aisle.
On screen, a song burst into full color—joyful, expansive. The irony wasn't lost on him.
Zayn watched Ahan's back retreat down the aisle, then down the steps, disappearing into the dim exit glow. He sighed, dipped his hand into the popcorn, and chewed thoughtfully.
"Nice song," he murmured to himself, turning back to the screen.
Outside, the noise of the theatre faded into the steady hum of the street. Ahan stood near the railing, arms crossed, jaw clenched, staring at nothing in particular. The city carried on, indifferent.
A few minutes later, Zayn emerged, humming.
"That song was actually really good," he said, genuinely impressed.
Ahan rounded on him.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he snapped. "You sent my photos without even asking me?"
"I knew you'd say no," Zayn replied evenly.
"Of course I'd say no!" Ahan shot back. "What do you think my parents will say?"
Zayn didn't answer immediately.
That silence was louder than any argument.
"They don't have to know," Zayn said finally. "Not yet."
Ahan scoffed. "So what, I just disappear for auditions?"
"You go once," Zayn insisted. "If nothing happens, nothing happened. End of story."
"And if something does?"
Zayn hesitated. "Then you tell them."
Ahan shook his head. "I won't get selected."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
"You don't," Zayn said firmly. "You won't even let me finish."
Ahan opened his mouth, then stopped. Something uncomfortable stirred beneath his certainty. A thought he hadn't allowed himself to articulate.
What if?
Zayn softened his tone. "Just try."
The word lingered between them.
Ahan exhaled, long and slow. He looked at Zayn, really looked at him—the stubborn hope in his eyes, the belief that bordered on recklessness.
"Fine," Ahan said at last. "Let's do it."
Zayn's grin was instant.
They took an auto across town the next day to the address mentioned in the call. A modest building. No banners. No crowd spilling onto the street.
They stepped out, confused.
"This can't be it," Ahan said.
"Address matches," Zayn replied, checking again. "Unless—"
"Unless it's a scam," Ahan said. "Or worse."
Zayn frowned but said nothing.
A man in a black shirt approached them, neutral expression, clipboard in hand.
"Ahan Choudhary?" he asked.
Ahan hesitated, then nodded.
The man smiled. "They're waiting inside."
Waiting?
Ahan glanced at Zayn. "No script?"
"They just want to see you," the man said simply.
Zayn clapped Ahan lightly on the shoulder. "Best of luck."
Ahan stepped inside, heart beating faster than he'd like to admit, unaware that for them, he was already the first choice.