The rehearsal room was bathed in warm afternoon light — golden, deceptive, peaceful.
But peace was the last thing between them.
Rhea's voice sliced through the air. "That shot doesn't feel right, Aarav. You're forcing the emotion."
Aarav turned sharply, script in hand. "I'm not forcing anything, Rhea. It's the tone the scene needs — intensity, not hesitation."
"It needs honesty," she shot back. "Not just drama."
The rest of the crew fell silent, eyes darting between them like spectators at a storm.
Kabir watched from the edge, jaw tight, hands in his pockets. He'd seen this coming — that subtle shift between collaboration and competition.
And now, it was cracking open.
Art vs. Ego
Rhea walked over to the monitor, replaying the scene. The camera zoomed too close on the protagonist's face, emotion spilling into exaggeration.
"This isn't him," she said softly. "He's breaking inside, not performing for the world."
Aarav crossed his arms. "You're overthinking it."
"No, I'm feeling it," Rhea retorted. "That's what storytelling is."
Kabir exhaled slowly. He'd spent weeks learning lines for this short film — a story about betrayal and forgiveness. Irony wasn't lost on him.
He stepped forward carefully. "Hey," he said, voice calm, almost too calm. "Let's take five. You both need it."
But Aarav wasn't done. "I just wish, Rhea, that for once you'd trust my direction."
Rhea blinked, her hurt flashing like lightning. "I do. I just don't trust your control."
Silence. Even the hum of the lights seemed to fade.
Kabir finally placed himself between them, his voice low but steady. "This film isn't about who's right. It's about why we're doing it — together. Remember?"
Aarav's jaw unclenched. Rhea turned away, brushing her hair back, trying not to cry.
The Cracks Widen
Later, as the crew packed up, the tension lingered like dust in the air.
Kabir gathered the equipment quietly, letting the others cool off. Rhea lingered near the window, lost in thought. Aarav was pacing outside, phone pressed to his ear — probably negotiating another competition submission.
"You did well today," Kabir said gently.
Rhea sighed. "I didn't. I just… couldn't stay quiet."
"You shouldn't," he said. "You have vision. You see people — that's rare."
Her lips curved into a small smile. "And Aarav?"
Kabir hesitated. "He builds people. You both just see the world differently."
She nodded, then whispered, "Sometimes I wonder if that difference is what makes us strong… or what's going to break us."
Kabir didn't answer. Some truths didn't need words.
After the Clash
When the day finally ended, they met again on the empty steps outside the studio. The golden light had turned to dusk.
Aarav dropped beside them, his earlier fire dimmed. "Okay," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Maybe I overreacted."
Rhea looked at him, still guarded. "Maybe I pushed too hard."
Kabir smiled faintly. "Maybe you're both just human."
They laughed — awkwardly, softly, like people trying to rebuild something fragile.
Aarav looked out at the fading sun. "You know, when we started this, I thought it would be easy. Just talent, teamwork, and luck."
"It never is," Rhea murmured. "The closer we get, the harder it becomes."
Kabir leaned back, watching the sky turn violet. "Then we hold on tighter."
Aarav glanced at him. "You really think that's enough?"
Kabir smiled, a little sadly. "It has to be."
Unspoken Notes
As they walked back to the dorms, Aarav slung his bag over his shoulder. "Tomorrow, we try it your way, Rhea."
She blinked. "Really?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Let's see what your 'honesty' looks like on camera."
For the first time all day, she smiled — bright and genuine. "Thank you."
Kabir watched her expression, that spark in her eyes when she looked at Aarav. He memorized it quietly, like a line from a song only he could hear.
When Aarav's phone rang again and he stepped aside to answer, Rhea turned to Kabir. "Thanks for stepping in today."
He shrugged. "You'd have done the same."
She hesitated, then whispered, "You're the only one who keeps us together."
Kabir laughed softly. "Someone's got to make sure the story doesn't fall apart."
What he didn't say — what he could never say — was that sometimes holding them together meant tearing himself quietly in two.