Isha's POV
The rehearsal room was half-lit.
Aryan came pretending to fiddle with the lights, but I knew he was listening.
I stood center stage.
No script.
Just memory.
I began.
"I didn't mean to notice you.
You were loud.
Distracted.
Always saying the wrong thing at the right time.
And I hated that I remembered your laugh.
That I looked for it.
That I started timing my jokes to match your rhythm…"
My voice trembled.
Not because I was nervous.
Because it was mine.
Every word.
"You made me feel like I was circuitry—wired wrong, sparking at the wrong moments.
But then you stayed.
And I started wondering if maybe I wasn't broken.
Just… waiting for the right voltage."
I paused.
The silence stretched.
Then Aryan stepped forward.
Not planned.
Not blocked.
He looked at me like he'd been holding something in for weeks.
"You weren't broken.
You were brilliant.
And I didn't mean to fall for you.
But I did.
Somewhere between your sarcasm and your soldering iron.
Somewhere between your monologue and your mango juice."
I blinked.
He smiled, soft and unsure.
"Isha, I didn't just hear your words.
I felt them.
And I think I've been waiting for you to say them so I could finally say mine."
The room felt too small for the moment.
Too quiet for the noise in my chest.
I stepped closer.
Close enough to see the ink stain on his wrist.
Close enough to whisper.
"You just hijacked my monologue."
He grinned. "You hijacked my heart first."
I rolled my eyes. "Still cheesy."
He shrugged. "Still true."
And then, without cue or choreography,
I kissed him.
Not because it was scripted.
Because it was overdue.
And he kissed me back.
Slow.
Certain.
Like he'd been rehearsing it in silence for weeks.
His hands found mine.
Not possessive—just present.
And in that moment, surrounded by blinking lights and the scent of solder and secrets,
we weren't performing.
We were finally telling the truth.