London woke up grey that day — a soft drizzle painting the windows of her flat in Kensington. Suhana sat cross-legged on the couch, sipping her now-cold coffee, staring at the unread email from Studio Echo.
Subject: Audition Tape Recording — 2 p.m., Studio B
Her first instinct was to ignore it. She wasn't sure she could do "talking about love" for a living. But there was something about that first conversation — the way Arjun had listened, like every word she said had weight — that made her hesitate.
> "What's the worst that could happen?" she told herself.
"You talk about love. You've survived worse."
She grabbed her tote, her laptop, and her red scarf — the one she wore whenever she needed courage. It wasn't just a piece of cloth; it was a memory she didn't fully remember.
At Studio Echo, Arjun had been there since morning. He'd listened to dozens of applicants the previous week — all polished voices and practiced smiles.
But something about Suhana's tone from yesterday had stayed with him.
She hadn't performed her words — she'd believed them.
He replayed a clip from their first meeting.
> Arjun: "Do you believe in love?"
Suhana: "Depends on what kind you're selling."
He smiled faintly. There was a sharpness there — the kind that came from being disappointed but still curious enough to hope again.
He adjusted the mics, checked the gain levels, and found himself wondering what her laugh would sound like unfiltered, when she wasn't trying to be composed.
She walked in five minutes early this time, rain dripping from the ends of her hair.
"You're early again," he said, teasing lightly.
"Or maybe you're still late," she replied — same tone as before, same rhythm.
They both smiled.
This time, the room felt smaller. Or maybe it was just the air between them.
"Today's episode topic," Arjun said, handing her a notepad, "is 'Do modern relationships need labels?'"
She raised a brow. "Oh, we're going controversial already."
"That's the point. Listeners love debate."
As they settled, Suhana noticed something: he wasn't trying to dominate the space. He gave her room — both physically and conversationally. That was new. That was… unnervingly rare.
He hit record. The red light blinked on.
Arjun: "So, Suhana, what do you think about labels in relationships?"
Suhana: "They're just another box to make people comfortable with what they don't understand."
Arjun: "And without labels?"
Suhana: "People panic. They need names for things they can't control."
Arjun: "So love should be label-free?"
Suhana: "Love should be free, period."
The silence after her words wasn't awkward. It was thick, charged — the kind that made both of them forget there were microphones involved.
He leaned slightly forward, voice softer now.
"Spoken like someone who's been trapped in one."
Her eyes flickered up. For a second, she wanted to answer. Tell him about that one person who'd made her question everything she believed about love and freedom. But she swallowed it back.
Instead, she smirked. "Spoken like someone who's done the trapping."
He laughed. And just like that, the tension dissolved — replaced by something warmer, more alive.
After recording, Aanya and Arjun sat across the glass table, both avoiding eye contact but smiling like idiots.
The producer peeked in. "That was perfect. We'll review it tomorrow. Same team next week?"
Arjun nodded. "Definitely."
When the producer left, Arjun turned to her.
"You did great today."
"You too," she said. "Didn't expect you to keep up."
"Didn't expect you to hold back."
Their eyes met — brief, electric, lingering just a little too long.
The city outside rumbled with rain, but inside the studio, everything felt still.
He watched her gather her things, the red scarf slipping off her shoulder. He reached out instinctively, catching it before it hit the ground.
"Careful," he said, handing it back.
"Thanks," she murmured. "It's old. Been with me forever."
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Looks like it's been through a lot."
He didn't know why, but something about that scarf tugged at a corner of his mind — like an old photograph blurred by time.
That night, Suhana sat in her tiny flat, playing the recording back.
She hated listening to herself — but when she heard his laugh, she smiled without realizing.
> "Love should be free, period."
"Spoken like someone who's been trapped in one."
She paused, replayed that line again. The tone in his voice had shifted — deeper, almost protective. It made something flutter uneasily in her chest.
Across the city, Arjun stood by his apartment window, rain streaking down the glass.
He couldn't stop thinking about her voice — confident yet breaking slightly around the edges.
He opened an old box from his childhood — one filled with random souvenirs.
A photo slipped out: a group of kids near a lake in India.
He looked at it, then at the red scarf lying in his memory.
> "Strange," he murmured. "Why does it feel like I've met her before?"
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Some memories don't fade. They wait — patient, silent — until the right voice wakes them up again.