The kitchen clock ticked just past midnight. Vivaan, hair still damp from a shower, stood barefoot in front of the open fridge. A half-finished cup of tea sat on the counter. He wasn't thirsty — just restless.
He heard footsteps. Familiar. Rhythmic.
Dev entered, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Loose track pants, threadbare band tee. He paused.
"I thought you'd gone to bed," he said.
Vivaan shook his head. "Tried. Couldn't sleep. Strings were buzzing."
Dev walked in slowly, opened a drawer, and pulled out a spoon. "Is that why I heard you playing The National through the wall?"
Vivaan gave a sheepish smile. "Thin insulation. Sorry."
Dev leaned against the counter, arms folded. "Don't apologize. You're the only tenant I've ever had who makes the silence better, not worse."
Vivaan paused mid-sip. He said nothing — just blinked, once.
Dev quickly changed the subject. "I was thinking of remastering the terrace track. The final hook still feels raw."
"It should," Vivaan replied. "It was raw."
They stood there for a moment, the hum of the refrigerator their only soundtrack.
Then Dev asked, casually, "Do you miss living alone?"
Vivaan gave a small shrug. "Not really. I like the company."
A beat. "I like this company."
Dev didn't respond immediately. Then he moved to the pantry shelf and pulled out a pack of instant noodles. "You hungry?"
Vivaan tilted his head. "That's your follow-up?"
"I ask when I don't know how to say the thing."
Vivaan watched him.
"Say it anyway."
Dev opened the packet. "I don't know what this is. What we're doing. But it's the first time someone's room down the hall feels like the center of the house."
That quieted Vivaan. He set his tea down gently. "It's easier, you know, if you just knock. Sometimes I think you're about to, and then…"
"I freeze," Dev admitted. "I write lyrics about intimacy but suck at knocking on doors. Literally and metaphorically."
Vivaan stepped closer, his voice soft. "Then don't knock. Just come in."
A beat.
Dev looked at him. "Not your room. Not yet. But maybe... maybe the studio?"
Vivaan smiled. "You mean right now?"
Dev shrugged, grabbing the kettle. "Unless you're planning on writing a heartbreak song in the next five minutes, I think we're safe."
Later – Rooftop Studio,
They sat across from each other, floor cushions, guitar and MIDI controller between them. Vivaan looped a soft progression on the acoustic, letting it breathe. Dev leaned forward, adjusting the tempo of a hi-hat tap, then looked up.
"Play it like you mean it."
"I am playing it like I mean it."
"Play it like it's meant for me."
Vivaan's fingers stilled on the strings.
Then he strummed slower, deliberate. Each chord stretched like a thread across the space between them.
Dev didn't look away this time. "I'm scared," he whispered, almost ashamed.
Vivaan replied just as softly, "Me too."
"But I'm more scared of you moving out one day and never hearing your songs through the wall again."
Vivaan smiled faintly. "Well, good news… I paid rent for two months in advance."
They both laughed quietly — the tension momentarily softened, but not gone.
Vivaan leaned back, voice low. "Maybe someday, I'll write one that doesn't need walls between it and the person it's meant for."
Dev didn't say anything. He just reached forward and gently retuned one of Vivaan's strings.
Their fingers brushed. Neither moved away.
Later, after the studio was powered down and the silence settled back into the walls, they stood outside their rooms — his on the left, Vivaan's on the right.
Vivaan held his guitar by the neck, his shoulder brushing the wall.
Dev leaned on his doorframe. No music now. Just breath. Just silence.
"Night," Vivaan murmured.
Dev looked at him. "See you tomorrow."
Then he stepped into his room and closed the door — slowly. Quietly.
Morning – Kitchen, 10:14 AM
The morning light slipped in through the tall windows, golden and clean. In the shared kitchen, the usual sounds: kettle hissing, toaster ticking, birds outside the mesh. It was familiar. But today, there was a subtle shift.
Vivaan stepped in barefoot, hoodie draped loosely, hair still uncombed. His guitar pick hung from a string around his neck — a quiet ritual. He blinked toward the counter.
A cup of tea. Already made. Warm. Mint. His kind.
Dev wasn't in the room, but the radio was softly playing — a jazz instrumental loop Vivaan had once hummed under his breath.
He smiled, barely. Then he noticed it: a folded note under the cup. Track's in the studio. Listen without me first. Tell me what it sounds like to you.
Vivaan held the cup, the note still in hand, and walked out slowly. The air felt charged — with trust, maybe. Or permission.
Rooftop Studio, 11:03 AM,
Vivaan entered alone. The studio was bathed in sunlight. The computer was already on, one track queued up on the DAW screen: "V: Loop_3_RealTake"
He put on the headphones, adjusted them carefully, and pressed play. It started with his chords — recorded live from the night before — but then evolved. Dev had layered ambient textures beneath, some subtle piano swells, a barely-there vocal sample reversed for mood. There was no beat. No structure. It was more like a feeling than a song.
At 1:26, there was a single chord that stopped Vivaan's breath. D7. The "confessional" chord. Then, silence. Then a soft fade. The entire thing lasted under three minutes.
Vivaan removed the headphones, eyes blinking fast — not from tears, but something like recognition. He didn't speak. He simply saved the file, renamed it: "The Space Between Our Rooms – Final?"
Afternoon – Random Stop | City D Art Alley
Later, while walking to a nearby store, Vivaan got a message.
Dev: Coming back. Coffee on me if you're near Gali 14?
Vivaan replied instantly: Already here. Was stalking murals.
Also, you owe me a sandwich too. For the tea.
2:17 PM – Outdoor Café, Gali 14
They sat at a small table under a canvas canopy, half in sun, half in shadow. Dev wore round sunglasses and a blue shirt that made his arms look unintentionally good. Vivaan, all black hoodie and denim, looked like he belonged on an indie album cover.
"So?" Dev asked between bites. "Did you hate it?"
Vivaan took a sip of his iced Americano. "I renamed it."
Dev paused. "You what?"
"I gave it a name," Vivaan said calmly. "Because it felt finished."
Dev leaned forward. "And…?"
Vivaan looked him dead in the eye. "It felt like a song about a door being left open."
Dev said nothing for a long time. Then: "That's exactly what it was."
Evening – Upstairs Hallway, 7:41 PM
Vivaan stood by the open window, holding a book he wasn't reading. Dev approached from the hallway, towel around his neck, damp from a post-run shower.
They didn't speak. Just passed each other.
But as Dev reached his door, Vivaan called, "Hey."
Dev stopped.
Vivaan walked over. "I've been thinking."
"That sounds dangerous."
Vivaan smiled. "I think we should record something again. Tonight."
"Same track?"
"No." Vivaan shook his head. "Something new. From scratch. Just you and me. No edits. No pre-loop. Just…"
He exhaled. "Just the way it is."
Dev looked at him carefully. "You mean, improvise the track?"
"No." Vivaan looked straight into his eyes.
"I mean improvise us."
Rooftop Studio, Nightfall, A single mic. One guitar. No headphones. No DAW view. Just sound.
Vivaan began the first chord, eyes closed. Dev watched him, not trying to control the track. He let it move. Let it breathe.
When Vivaan finished the last line — no lyrics, just a hum — he looked at Dev.
Dev didn't say a word. He just stepped forward. Slowly.
And this time, neither of them moved away.