Vedant's POV
Everyone was glowing.
Meher and Nihal were tangled together on the edge of the stage, laughing like they'd invented joy.
Aryan and Isha were rehearsing, but it was mostly flirting disguised as blocking.
Riya and Mudit were arguing again—this time about whether moonwalking could be considered "emotional movement."
And I was standing center stage, pretending I wasn't about to unravel.
I didn't plan to say the monologue.
Not today.
Not like that.
But something about the way Arohi was sitting—script open, pen still, eyes unreadable—made me want to speak.
So I did.
"I used to think silence was armor.
That if I didn't speak, I couldn't be misunderstood.
That if I didn't feel, I couldn't be broken…"
The words came out steadier than I expected.
But inside, I was shaking.
"But then someone looked at me like silence wasn't emptiness.
Like it was a language.
And suddenly, I wanted to be fluent."
I finished.
No applause.
No teasing.
Just stillness.
And Arohi.
She didn't clap.
She didn't smile.
She looked.
Like she'd heard something she wasn't ready for.
Like she'd seen something she wasn't expecting.
And in that moment, I didn't care if anyone else noticed.
Because she did.
Her silence wasn't distant.
It was listening.
And I realized something terrifying and beautiful.
I loved her.
Not because she was easy to love.
Not because she fit into the rhythm of the room.
But because she didn't.
Because she was different.
Because she didn't fill silence—she honored it.
Because she didn't rush to comfort—she stayed with discomfort.
Because she saw me not as a performer, but as a person.
I wanted her to speak.
Not because I needed validation.
But because I wanted to know what her silence meant when it was mine.
She stood slowly.
Walked past the others.
Stopped beside me.
She didn't say anything.
Just looked at me like the monologue had been hers too.
And maybe it was.
Maybe we'd both been performing versions of ourselves, waiting for someone to see the truth beneath the script.
I didn't touch her.
Didn't ask.
But I knew.
Something had shifted.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to change the scene.