"Some people don't walk into a room — they change its temperature."
By the end of the first week, everyone at the National School of Media Arts knew the name Aarav Malhotra.
He wasn't just a student; he was a storm.
Wherever he went, laughter followed. Conversations shifted. Cameras turned.
And Rhea?
She preferred shadows. Corners. The quiet hum of the lens as she filmed others shining.
But even from behind her camera, she couldn't ignore him.
The campus film club meeting was held in the old auditorium — a place that smelled faintly of dust, stories, and coffee. Posters of classic films covered the walls, and excitement buzzed in the air.
Rhea sat near the back, adjusting her camera settings. She wasn't there to perform — only to observe. That was her comfort zone: silent, invisible, recording the world without being part of it.
Then Aarav walked in.
The door creaked open, and suddenly, conversations paused. His presence wasn't loud — it was magnetic.
He carried a worn leather notebook and that same half-smile that seemed to know too much.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, sliding into the room as if the moment belonged to him.
He wasn't sorry. He was never sorry.
The president of the club, an older student named Ritika, announced that they were hosting an open pitch — anyone could present a short film idea. Most students shifted nervously, whispering excuses.
Then Aarav stood.
"I have one," he said.
Of course he did.
He walked to the front, unfolding a single sheet of paper. His energy filled the space — not arrogant, just sure.
"It's called 'The Unwritten Script.' A story about a boy who wants to write the perfect ending but keeps losing the people he's writing for."
A few students nodded, intrigued.
He went on, painting scenes with words — a lonely typewriter, a rain-soaked city, a chase between ambition and regret.
Rhea found herself lowering her camera, completely lost in his narration.
He wasn't performing. He was feeling.
Every word carried rhythm, conviction.
"And in the end," he said, glancing around, "he realizes the perfect story doesn't exist — only the people brave enough to keep writing."
Silence. Then — applause.
Not the polite kind, but the genuine, uncontrollable kind.
Rhea clapped too, her heart thudding in quiet awe.
Through her lens, she had seen actors, speakers, even dreamers.
But Aarav was different. He didn't just talk about stories — he became them.
After the meeting, students surrounded him, showering him with questions.
He answered them all with his usual ease — a grin here, a wink there.
Rhea slipped out quietly, her camera bag slung over her shoulder. She didn't want to be part of the crowd.
"Leaving already?"
She froze. That voice.
She turned — and there he was, notebook in hand, eyes dancing with mischief.
"I didn't even see you in there," Aarav said, walking closer. "Were you hiding behind that lens again?"
Rhea gave a small smile. "Maybe."
"Maybe?" He tilted his head. "You know, you should try being in front of it sometime."
"I prefer focus to fame," she said simply.
He grinned. "I like that. But what if someone's focus… is you?"
The words made her pulse quicken.
She looked down, fumbling with her camera strap. "That's not a good shot to take."
"Maybe not," he said softly. "But sometimes the best shots are the risky ones."
They walked together across the courtyard, the sun dipping behind the film school's old stone walls.
He talked about cinema like it was oxygen — about his obsession with screenwriting, his dream to direct something that would make people cry and smile in the same breath.
Rhea listened, occasionally stealing glances, unsure if it was his words or his passion that made her feel unsteady.
When they reached the canteen, he turned suddenly.
"Hey, I saw your footage from the last project," Aarav said. "The lighting — the way you caught reflections on glass — that was you, right?"
Rhea blinked. "You noticed that?"
He nodded. "How could I not? You turned a college corridor into poetry."
No one had ever said that to her before. Not like that.
Not with such conviction.
"Thanks," she whispered, trying not to blush.
He smiled. "I meant it. You've got an eye for emotion. That's rarer than talent."
Later that night, Rhea sat in her dorm room, editing clips on her laptop.
The footage was ordinary — classmates chatting, a professor lecturing, someone spilling coffee.
Yet every frame she lingered on had him in it somehow — a laugh in the background, a flash of movement, his reflection in a window.
She pressed pause. The image froze on his smile.
Her heart did the same.
She closed her laptop quickly, as if caught doing something forbidden.
But even with her eyes shut, his voice lingered.
"You've got an eye for emotion."
The next morning, the film club announced its next project — an experimental short based on emotion without dialogue.
Aarav volunteered to write the concept.
And before Rhea could react, he turned to her and said, "I want you behind the camera for this."
The whole room turned to look.
She hesitated, caught off guard.
"Me?"
"Yeah," he said with that easy confidence. "You see what most people miss. I want that."
Rhea met his gaze, her chest tightening with something both thrilling and terrifying.
Maybe it was fate. Or maybe just a good story beginning to write itself.
Either way — the girl behind the camera had just stepped into his script.
And she had no idea how much it would change both of them.