The rehearsal room was always half-lit—one flickering tube light, one open window, and the faint echo of old performances clinging to the walls. Rhea stood near the blackboard, script in hand, hair tied in a loose bun that kept slipping with every laugh.
Kabir leaned against a desk, pretending to study the pages. In truth, he was studying her.
"Okay," she said, squinting at the script. "If I forget the line, you cue me. Promise?"
"Promise," he replied. His voice came out softer than intended.
She smiled and began reading, her tone unsure at first. "You can't just walk away like that."
Kabir answered, stepping into the scene, "Then tell me why I should stay."
Rhea froze, startled by the sudden weight in his voice. The words were from the script, but his eyes made them sound real. For a second, neither of them moved. Then she laughed to break the tension.
"Wow," she teased. "Someone's been practicing in front of the mirror."
"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe I just finally found the right partner."
Her cheeks warmed; she looked down at the page. "Focus, actor. Let's try again."
Between Lines
They went through the scene again, over and over, until the classroom filled with their laughter and echoing footsteps. Rhea stumbled through dramatic gestures; Kabir exaggerated his lines until she doubled over laughing.
When she finally dropped onto a bench, gasping for breath, he sat beside her, handing over a bottle of water.
"Why are you helping me so much?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Because you helped me believe I could act."
She turned, surprised. "I did?"
"You don't remember," he said. "Last semester, before my first audition—you told me nerves are just proof that we care. That stayed."
Rhea smiled softly. "You actually listen."
"Always."
The word hung between them, simple but true.
The Quiet Moment
For a few minutes, neither spoke. The fan above creaked lazily. Outside, the corridors were empty; everyone had gone home. Rhea leaned back, closing her eyes.
Kabir watched her in the faint light, the way strands of hair brushed her cheek, the faint smile still lingering there. If only this could last, he thought. If only laughter could be enough.
She opened her eyes suddenly, catching his gaze. "What?"
"Nothing," he said quickly, looking away. "Just thinking how natural you are in front of a camera."
Rhea grinned. "You sound like Aarav."
At the mention of the name, his smile faltered for a heartbeat. "Do I?"
She didn't notice. "He said the same thing after the last shoot. You two should team up and bully me less."
Kabir forced a laugh. "He's good at that."
The Confession That Wasn't
When they resumed, Rhea forgot her line halfway through and burst out laughing again. "I'm hopeless."
"No," Kabir said. "You're… light."
She blinked. "Light?"
He nodded, searching for words. "Some people fill a room. You light it."
Rhea's smile faded into something gentler. "Kabir…"
But before she could answer, Aarav's message buzzed on her phone. She glanced at the screen, excitement flashing across her face.
"It's Aarav—he wants to show me the final draft tonight!"
Kabir's chest tightened. "Go. Don't keep the genius waiting."
She laughed, gathering her things. "You're coming too, right? We'll need your honest review."
"Maybe later," he said. "I've got some lines to practice."
Rhea paused at the door. "You'll be amazing, you know."
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Only because of you."
She left, her footsteps echoing down the corridor. Kabir sank back into the chair, the room suddenly too quiet.
He picked up her forgotten script, tracing the small coffee stain near her name.
"Tell me why I should stay…" he whispered, the line now aching with meaning.
A Silent Rehearsal
He stood in front of the mirror at the front of the classroom and began to run the lines again, alone.
"You can't just walk away like that.""Then tell me why I should stay."
Over and over, until his reflection blurred. He wasn't acting anymore; he was confessing to an empty room.
Later That Night
Rhea messaged a photo from Aarav's workspace—papers scattered, two cups of coffee, his grin half-captured.
Look who's rewriting everything again!
Kabir stared at the photo for a long time, then typed back:
Looks perfect. Both of you do.
He didn't hit send. Instead, he closed his phone and walked out into the courtyard, where lights shimmered through rain. The puddles reflected the stars, broken and beautiful.
He rehearsed one last line under his breath, not from the script but from somewhere deeper.
"I'll stay. Even if you never ask me to."