Arohi's POV
I don't like group work.
Too many voices.
Too many eyes.
Too many chances to be misread.
But tonight, I showed up early.
Again.
Not for the brainstorming.
For the silence before it.
The common room was dim.
Meher was arranging biscuits like they were plot points.
Aryan was already loud.
Isha had brought markers.
Riya was sketching something that looked like a storm.
Mudit sat by the window, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands like armor.
Vedant hadn't spoken yet.
He was staring at his notebook like it held something fragile.
Then he looked up.
"Can I share something?" he asked.
The room quieted.
Even Aryan stopped mid-joke.
"It's not a scene," Vedant said. "It's… something real."
His voice was steady, but his fingers trembled slightly against the page.
"There was this day," he began, "last year. My mom had just come back from the restaurant. She was tired. Quiet. I asked her if she wanted tea, and she said yes. But when I brought it, she didn't drink it. She just stared at it. For a long time."
He paused.
No one interrupted.
"I asked her what was wrong. She said, 'Nothing. I'm just remembering something I never said.'"
The silence that followed wasn't awkward.
It was sacred.
Vedant's eyes flicked toward the window. "I didn't ask what she meant. I should've. But I didn't. I just sat beside her. And we didn't speak. For almost an hour."
He looked at us.
At me.
"That silence—it wasn't empty. It was full. Like it was saying everything she couldn't."
I felt something shift inside me.
Not a crack.
A soft unraveling.
Because I'd always thought silence was a strategy.
A way to control the narrative.
To hold power.
But Vedant's silence wasn't about control.
It was about grief.
About love.
About the ache of words that never found their way out.
I looked at him.
Really looked.
And for the first time, I didn't see a rival.
I saw someone who carried stories in his silences.
Someone who understood the weight of memory.
"I think that's our opening scene," I said.
Everyone turned to me.
Vedant blinked. "You sure?"
I nodded. "It's quiet. It's real. It's the kind of silence that makes people listen."
He smiled.
Not the kind he wore in class.
The kind that slipped out before he could stop it.
And I thought,
Maybe this script isn't about winning.
Maybe it's about telling the truth.
Even if it hurts.
Even if it's wordless.
And maybe—just maybe—silence isn't a shield.
It's a doorway.