Episode 7: The Morning Reel
623 Words
The screen blinked twice, then steadied into silence.
Nobody in the theatre moved.
Six pairs of eyes stared ahead, hearts clenched like fists, breath held hostage by a reel that threatened to unravel everything they'd buried.
And then it began.
Not with sound.
But with a glance.
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Act I: The Way They Were
The footage opened on a dimly lit rehearsal room. Younger versions of themselves moved like dream fragments:
Rwik stood at center stage, reciting Caesar's lines, his voice thunderous, alive.
Tara sat on a stool, scribbling notes, eyebrows furrowed with purpose.
Mrittika adjusted a backdrop, her face glowing with quiet joy.
Arko hovered in the wings, notebook in hand, watching—not just the scene, but them.
A soft piano score underscored the images. Then came Arko’s voice — not live, but recorded:
> “We performed because it was safer than speaking.
On stage, we could be gods.
But off it, we were cowards.”
Ishaan shifted in his seat. Ishika looked straight ahead, lips thin.
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Act II: Unseen Love
Scene after scene flowed like ink bleeding through parchment.
One showed Tara and Mrittika walking silently after a rehearsal, hands nearly touching but never quite meeting. The camera zoomed in—on a moment so small, so sacred—it felt like trespass.
Another revealed Arko staring at Rwik during a lighting test. His expression: unreadable. Until you listened to his whispered monologue in the background.
> “I loved him the way light loves mirrors—
Always reflected. Never held.”
A tremor passed through Rwik’s face. His fingers tightened into his scarf.
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Act III: The Eyes of the Camera
Anirban’s presence was everywhere now.
Filming. Asking. Observing.
In one clip, he speaks off-camera:
> “Do you trust each other?”
The group responds with silence.
Then laughter.
Then, finally—Rwik, answering, “More than anything.”
Cut to black.
Then a slow-motion replay of Rwik standing too close to Anirban in the greenroom. No touch. Just the space between them charged with unspoken current.
The air in the theatre grew heavy. Each viewer now not only remembered what they felt—but questioned if they ever really understood it.
---
Act IV: Arko’s Journals
Pages of handwriting scrolled across the screen—torn from Arko’s journals.
> “If truth is performance, then I wrote the best play of all.
I watched the collapse.
I said nothing.”
The camera moved across stills of Arko walking alone along Jadavpur’s red-brick lanes. Scribbling. Sitting. Watching.
And never—never—speaking his truth.
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Act V: The Betrayal
The footage slowed. Turned grainy.
The 22-second clip reappeared—the one that started it all.
This time, not as scandal, but as history.
The difference? It played in context:
Preceded by footage of Rwik in the corridor, glancing over his shoulder, uncertain.
Followed by Anirban, adjusting his camera, then freezing when he notices the door slightly ajar.
Then—cut.
An overlay appears:
> “This clip was sent from an anonymous email account created at the university library.”
> “One login. One password. Used only once.”
> “Location: Student wing, West Hall.”
The screen fades.
A voice follows.
It’s distorted. But clear.
> “I didn’t mean to break us.
I just wanted to stop what I couldn’t control.
He was getting too close.
I was scared of losing him.”
Gasps rose in the room.
No name.
But every single one of them knew.
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They Turn
Six heads turned slowly toward the same person.
Ishika Mukherjee.
She didn’t cry.
Didn’t defend.
Didn’t run.
She met their eyes. And whispered only one word.
> “Yes.”
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- Writer
