Rain clouds had cleared just in time for the festival banners to flutter across the college lawn. The air smelled of coffee, wet grass, and nerves. Students rushed around with cameras and scripts; laughter clashed with the buzz of competition.
Aarav stood near the registration booth, his script rolled in one hand like a sword. "We're not just entering," he said, eyes gleaming. "We're winning."
Rhea tightened her ponytail, pretending calm. "Let's start with entering on time first."
Kabir chuckled softly, holding their gear bag. "If confidence was a trophy, Aarav, you'd already have one."
"Confidence wins half the battle." Aarav's grin was pure mischief. He looked at Rhea. "You'll handle direction. You've got the eye. Kabir and I will take care of the performance."
Rhea hesitated, the weight of leadership pressing on her shoulders. "You sure?"
He leaned closer, voice steady. "You see emotions before they happen, Rhea. That's what this story needs."
Her chest fluttered in a way she didn't want to name. Behind them, Kabir smiled faintly, adjusting the tripod. She lights up when he says her name like that, he thought. He didn't mind. Not yet.
Lights, Camera, Pressure
They spent the next week buried in the college studio—late nights, instant noodles, and endless retakes. Their short film, "One Last Frame," was about three dreamers trying to capture the perfect moment before life pulled them apart. Art imitated life more closely than they knew.
Aarav was relentless. "Again! Feel it this time," he'd shout from behind the monitor. Rhea, seated beside him, would whisper directions, her voice softer, steadier.
Kabir delivered every line with quiet precision, but what impressed everyone wasn't his performance—it was his patience. When Aarav and Rhea clashed over framing or tone, Kabir would simply step between them, offering peace like a gift.
"Let's take five," he'd say. "Coffee break. We'll see it clearer after."
They'd nod, and somehow, he always turned their storms into laughter.
The Night Before
By the eve of the competition, exhaustion clung to them like fog. The film was finished, edited, exported, and named. Rhea stared at the final cut glowing on her laptop screen.
Aarav leaned over her shoulder, breath warm against her ear. "We did it."
She looked up, smiling despite the fatigue. "We actually did."
For a second, neither moved. The hum of the computer filled the silence between their heartbeats.
Then Kabir's voice cut through softly. "Battery's charging. We'll need it tomorrow." He set the charger down beside them, eyes unreadable, smile kind. "Get some sleep, both of you."
Rhea nodded, not noticing how his hand lingered over the charger a little longer than necessary, as if grounding himself in the moment before it slipped away.
Showtime
The auditorium was overflowing the next morning. Teams whispered, judges adjusted their notes, and the screen glowed pale blue as the lights dimmed.
Rhea squeezed Aarav's hand unconsciously as their film began. On-screen, their characters chased the sunrise with cameras, laughter, and tears. Every frame held a memory—of arguments turned to art, of shared coffee, of Kabir's quiet strength holding the edges together.
When the credits rolled, there was a heartbeat of silence before the applause thundered through the hall. Aarav exhaled, a smile breaking through his composure. Rhea's eyes glistened; Kabir only looked relieved.
Backstage, Aarav spun Rhea around in a hug. "We did it! I told you!"
She laughed, breathless. "You were right for once."
Kabir stood a few steps away, clapping for them both. His smile was genuine, even if his heart trembled. As long as they're happy, he told himself. That's enough.
Results
Hours later, the judges returned with their verdicts. Third place went to a comedy. Second to a drama about rebellion. Then came first place.
"One Last Frame," the announcer said, "for its raw emotion and visual storytelling."
The crowd erupted. Rhea froze for a heartbeat, disbelief flooding her. Aarav whooped, pulling both her and Kabir into a spontaneous group hug.
Kabir laughed quietly between them, their arms around his shoulders. For a moment, it felt like everything they'd dreamed of—simple, perfect, whole.
After the Applause
When the crowd dispersed, the trio lingered on the empty stage. Aarav stared at the golden certificate in his hand. "This is just the beginning."
Rhea nodded. "We could actually make something real—something bigger."
Kabir smiled, though his eyes looked far away. "Then let's promise we'll always do it together."
Aarav extended his hand. "To us—our stories, our friendship, and whatever comes next."
Their hands met in the center of the dim stage—three threads bound by ambition, laughter, and something deeper none dared to name.
Somewhere beyond the auditorium doors, rain began again. But this time, it didn't feel like an ending. It felt like applause from the sky.