Arohi's POV
The terrace was quiet in that late-night way—where the air feels heavier, the stars feel closer, and every confession feels like it might echo.
Meher had brought mugs of chai, still steaming.
Isha was wrapped in a shawl, her eyes soft and distant.
Riya was lying flat on her back, counting constellations she couldn't name.
And I was pretending to be fine.
We were all pretending something.
"Isha," Meher said, nudging her, "how long did it take you to admit you liked Aryan?"
Isha groaned. "Too long. I was convinced he was just annoying. Turns out he's annoying and mine."
Riya laughed. "You kissed him in the rehearsal room. That's peak drama kid behavior."
Isha shrugged. "He quoted my monologue. What was I supposed to do—applaud?"
Meher turned to me. "And you, Arohi?"
I blinked. "Me?"
"You looked like you were about to cry when Vedant finished his monologue," she said, sipping her chai like she hadn't just detonated a truth bomb.
Isha looked up.
Riya froze mid-braid.
I stared at Meher.
"I did not," I said, too fast.
Meher raised an eyebrow. "You did. And then you stared at him like he'd just handed you your own heart."
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"I was just… moved," I said weakly.
Riya snorted. "Moved into his emotional orbit, maybe."
Isha smiled, quiet and knowing. "It's okay, you know. To feel something. Even if it's unexpected."
I looked down at my chai.
The steam curled like a secret.
"I didn't mean to," I whispered.
Meher leaned in. "That's how it starts."
I looked at her.
At all of them.
And for the first time, I let it out.
"I think I love him. Not loudly. Not all at once. But… like something I didn't know I was allowed to want."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward.
It was sacred.
Meher reached for my hand.
Isha leaned her head on my shoulder.
Riya wiped a fake tear and said, "Our strategist has fallen. Someone alert the drama department."
We laughed.
And cried a little.
And stayed on that terrace until the stars felt like witnesses.
But later, when the laughter faded and the others drifted into sleep, I stayed awake.
I replayed Vedant's monologue in my head.
The way his voice cracked on "fluent."
The way he looked at me—not like he was performing, but like he was remembering.
And I realized something else.
I didn't just love him because he saw me.
I loved him because he didn't try to fix me.
Because he let my silence be mine.
Because he spoke into it, not over it.
And maybe, just maybe, I was ready to speak back.