Between Words and Noise

The next day began with chaos again.

By nine-thirty, the auditorium looked like a construction site, bamboo poles stacked in corners, strings of marigolds half-hung, and volunteers shouting over each other.

“Arey paint idhar gir gaya!” someone yelled.

I rubbed my temples. “Bas, thoda discipline rakho, guys!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him.

Rehan stood on the small wooden stage, sleeves rolled up, giving directions like he’d been born with a mic in hand.

He looked too comfortable. Too confident.

Of course he does, I thought. Drama suits him.

I went up the aisle. “Mr Malik, you’re not the stage manager.”

He turned, sweat glinting near his temple, a grin threatening to form.

“Tum late ho, so I filled in.”

“I’m not late. I was supervising the backdrop outside.”

He shrugged. “Same thing. I’m still more productive.”

“Productive? You’ve changed the light layout again!” I climbed the steps and snatched the chart from his hand. “We agreed on two diagonals, not a full flood.”

He leaned closer, teasing. “Relax karo, Sharma ji. It’ll look better on camera.”

“I don’t care about the camera,” I said, voice tight. “I care about the people sitting in the last row who’ll get blinded.”

He laughed softly. “Still fighting for the audience. Typical Ira.”

Something in the way he said my name made my pulse stutter.

I hated that he noticed.

“Just fix it,” I muttered, stepping down the stage.

Hours blurred into heat and dust. We argued, adjusted, argued again. By afternoon, the hall finally began to look like a fest venue.

Menon ma’am came by, inspected everything, and left satisfied.

As soon as she was gone, Rehan dropped into a chair, stretching his arms. “Finally.”

I stayed near the stage, checking the checklist on my clipboard.

“You can rest after we test the mic and backdrop,” I said.

He groaned. “Yaar, ek break toh mil sakta hai?”

“Work first.”

He got up, walked to where I stood, and gently tugged the clipboard from my hand.

“Five minutes won’t kill productivity,” he said. “Come on, chai?”

I opened my mouth to refuse but something in his expression stopped me. There was no smirk this time—just quiet insistence.

I exhaled. “Fine. Five minutes.”

We sat on the auditorium steps with paper cups of chai that had gone lukewarm. Outside, the sky had turned that pale grey before rain.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

He broke the silence. “You ever get tired?”

“Of what?”

“Of proving yourself all the time.”

I looked at him sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He met my gaze. “You fight every battle like it’s the final one. College politics, fests, committees… Don’t you ever want to just—breathe?”

I laughed under my breath. “Easy for you to say. People listen to you. You walk in and everyone already knows your name.”

He smiled faintly. “And you think that’s effortless?”

I frowned. “Isn’t it?”

He shook his head. “Half the time I’m bluffing. The rest… I’m just trying to keep up.”

Something about the honesty in his tone caught me off guard. I’d always seen Rehan as noise and ego; this was quieter.

The wind shifted, carrying the smell of rain.

He looked at me again, eyes softer now. “You should let yourself slow down sometimes, Ira.”

“Maybe,” I said quietly. “But if I slow down, someone else will take over.”

“Maybe someone already has,” he said, almost to himself.

My chest tightened, unsure whether it was irritation or something warmer.

The first drops of rain began to fall, soft, scattered. Students outside started cheering.

He stood up, holding his hand out. “Chalo, before it pours.”

I took his hand without thinking.

For a brief second, the world narrowed to that touch—warm, steady, real.

Then I pulled away. “Let’s go finish the mic test.”

He smiled, the teasing back but lighter this time. “Yes, ma’am.”

Inside, the hall was dimmer, echoing with our footsteps.

He adjusted the mic stand while I plugged in the cables. “Testing, testing—one, two, three,” he said, voice reverberating.

“Try it properly,” I said. “Recite something.”

He thought for a second, then began softly:

“Kuch baatein kabhi kehni mushkil hoti hain… aur kuch log samajh jaate hain bina bole.”

The words hung in the air. I looked up; his eyes met mine through the half-light.

“Where did you hear that?” I asked, quieter than I meant.

He smiled. “Made it up just now.”

I rolled my eyes to hide the flutter in my chest. “Overconfident as ever.”

“Maybe,” he said, switching off the mic. “But admit it—it sounded nice.”

I pretended to check the wires. “Hmm. Average.”

He laughed, a low, genuine sound that filled the empty hall.

Outside, rain drummed softly on the tin roof.

For the first time since he’d come back, the silence between us didn’t feel like a fight.

That evening, after everyone left, I stayed behind to lock up. The hall smelled of wet paint and rain. As I turned off the last switch, I noticed his notebook on the front row.

Curiosity won. I opened it. Half-scribbled notes, doodles of the stage layout… and one line written near the margin:

She still argues like she’s trying to save the world.

I stared at it for a long moment, heart pounding.

Then I closed the notebook and placed it where he’d find it.

“Good night, Rehan,” I whispered to the empty room.

Outside, the rain kept falling, soft and steady, like a secret neither of us was ready to say aloud yet.