Arohi's POV
The rehearsal room was a mess of limbs, laughter, and half-folded scripts.
Meher and Nihal were rehearsing a scene where their characters argue about a broken compass, but they kept breaking into laughter every time Meher tried to sound angry.
"You're supposed to be furious," Nihal teased, dodging her half-hearted slap.
"I am furious," Meher said, grinning. "Furious that you keep improvising lines like 'I'd follow you even if north disappeared.'"
"Romantic, isn't it?"
"Cringe," she replied, but her smile betrayed her.
Across the room, Aryan and Isha were running lines—except they weren't really running lines. They were flirting through dialogue, their blocking slowly morphing into a dance neither of them acknowledged.
"You're late," Isha said, delivering her line.
Aryan stepped closer. "I was waiting for you to notice."
Riya groaned from the wings. "Can someone please remind them this is a tragedy?"
Mudit, beside her, snorted. "It's a tragedy for us. We have to watch this every day."
"You're just jealous," Riya said, elbowing him.
"I'm jealous of your inability to walk in a straight line," Mudit replied. "Seriously, how do you trip over tape?"
"It was dramatic tape," she said. "It had presence."
Their banter was so familiar it felt like background music—bickering in harmony.
And then Vedant stepped onstage.
He wasn't in costume.
Wasn't holding a script.
Just walked into the scene like he belonged there.
I looked up from my notes.
And something shifted.
He was supposed to deliver a monologue—one we'd heard before. But this time, he didn't perform it. He lived it.
"You think silence is safe.
That if you don't speak, you won't be misunderstood.
But silence isn't safety.
It's surrender.
And I'm tired of surrendering."
His voice was steady.
His eyes found mine.
"So I'm speaking now.
Not because I'm brave.
But because you made me want to be."
The room went still.
Meher stopped laughing.
Isha lowered her script.
Even Mudit and Riya paused mid-banter.
And I—
I couldn't breathe.
Because he wasn't just saying lines.
He was saying something to me.
I felt it in my chest.
In my throat.
In the way my fingers curled around the edge of the chair like they needed something to hold onto.
He finished the monologue.
Didn't look away.
And I knew.
I was falling for him.
Not dramatically.
Not like a scene.
But like a truth I hadn't rehearsed.