Unscripted

Avni Sharma

Cut. Camera. Chaos.

Adil Mehta hated networking events. He hated the artificial laughter, the overflowing wine glasses, the desperate smiles hiding behind even more desperate scripts. But tonight, he had no choice. His rent was due, his bank balance read like a horror story, and his last script — a coming-of-age story about a grieving magician — had been rejected with a “Nice tone, but not marketable.” So he stood awkwardly at the corner of the Film Writers Guild mixer, nursing a warm soda and mentally rewriting every regret of his life. That’s when it happened. A shout, a crash, and a blur of red. Someone had tripped. More accurately, someone had been shoved aside by a celebrity entourage. The victim? Adil Mehta and his soda, now baptized in sticky cola and shame. “Watch it!” a woman snapped, brushing past him without sparing a second glance. He blinked. That was Kiara Rao. The Kiara Rao. India’s reigning queen of romantic thrillers, known for her on-screen intensity and off-screen frost. “You okay?” someone muttered nearby, but Adil was too dazed to respond. He looked down at his ruined shirt and sighed. That was his only decent one. Later that night, in a daal-soaked T-shirt, he sat on his roommate’s broken futon reworking dialogue for a short film no one had funded. The fan creaked overhead like it was auditioning for a horror movie. He typed, deleted, retyped. A knock at the door startled him. “Adil bhai!” It was Zubin, his college friend turned assistant casting director. “I need a huge favor. Tomorrow morning. Emergency.” “Is this about that toothpaste ad again?” Adil groaned. “No yaar, listen. Lead actor of ‘Monsoon Masquerade’ just broke his leg at a Holi pool party. We need someone to stand in for a few test shots tomorrow. You’re the right height. You’ve got a face. And more importantly, you’re free.” Adil glared at him. “Is that your way of saying I’m jobless?” Zubin grinned. “Exactly. Wear something neutral. Come to Yashshree Studios at 9.” Before Adil could protest, Zubin vanished into the corridor like a ghost with a deadline. At 9:00 a.m. sharp the next morning, Adil arrived on set, sleep-deprived and under-caffeinated. The studio buzzed like a hive. Makeup artists scurried, spotboys yelled about wires, someone screamed for chai. Adil stood by the corner, clutching the pass Zubin had thrust into his hand. Then someone shoved a script into his chest. “Here. You’re doing Scene 32. Learn it fast.” “Sorry, I’m not an actor,” he tried to explain. “I’m just—” “Everyone’s an actor today, darling,” said the woman without looking at him. “Just don’t ruin her eyeline.” Her? He turned to ask — just as Kiara Rao entered the set. Dressed in a soft mustard kurta, eyes smoky, lips set in a line of quiet rage. She stopped mid-step. Her gaze landed on him. Recognition dawned. “You,” she said icily. “Soda boy.” Adil raised a hand awkwardly. “Hi.” “What’s he doing here?” she snapped to the director. “He’s the temp stand-in,” the man mumbled, flipping through call sheets. “Till we get a proper male lead.” Kiara crossed her arms. “He looks like he writes poetry on ceiling fans.” Adil blinked. “I—what?” “Never mind. Let’s get this over with.” The director shouted “Rolling!” and suddenly, lights flared, cameras moved, and Adil was standing too close to Bollywood royalty. Scene 32, apparently, was a rain-drenched lovers’ argument on a fake train platform. Kiara stood poised, her hair tousled just enough, eyes blazing. “You left,” she accused in character. “You didn’t even look back.” Adil opened his mouth and completely blanked. “Uh… I was looking… forward?” A collective groan rose from behind the camera. “Cut!” the director yelled. Kiara glared. “You’re ruining my rhythm.” “I wasn’t trained for this!” Adil protested. “I write scenes, not act in them.” “Then maybe you should stay off the set and stick to cafes with broken Wi-Fi.” “And maybe you should stop judging people by the spill radius of their soda.” That wasn’t in the script. Everyone froze. The camera kept rolling. “Wait,” said the director slowly, “say that again.” “Which part?” “The soda thing.” Adil repeated it. Kiara narrowed her eyes, replied with a sharp improv comeback of her own. It wasn’t in the script either. But it worked. Fire crackled between them — sarcastic, sizzling fire. The director motioned silently. Keep rolling. Five minutes turned to ten. The fake rain fell harder. Somewhere in between their improvised fight, Adil forgot the camera, and Kiara stopped looking bored. After the take, the assistant director clapped. “That was… alive.” Kiara was still glaring at Adil, but this time something behind her eyes had changed. “You’re annoying,” she said. “You’re impossible,” he replied. The director walked up. “We might not need to recast after all.” “Excuse me?” Adil and Kiara said in unison. “Your banter works. We’ll tweak the role to match your vibe,” the director continued. “Think of it as a rom-com with a temper.” Adil looked like he’d just been offered a seat on a spaceship. “But… I’m not an actor!” “Exactly,” Kiara muttered. “You’re a disaster.” “And you’re delightful,” the director said to both, misreading everything. “Welcome to Bollywood, Adil Mehta. You’re the new hero.” Adil opened his mouth. Then shut it. Then opened it again. Because somewhere, somehow, in the blink of spilled soda and sarcasm, he had just landed his first acting gig — in a film he didn’t write, opposite a woman who couldn’t stand him, under a spotlight that felt both too bright and too right. And just like that, life shouted: “Action.”

Part 2: Scene Stealer, Script Slayer

Adil Mehta spent the next hour in disbelief. He had come to the studio expecting to mumble a few lines and sneak out before lunch. Instead, he found himself being measured for costumes while the wardrobe assistant held up shirts and said things like “brooding but bookish” and “he gives anxious poet energy.” In the background, someone kept calling him “sir.” It was disturbing. “Can I at least call my mother before you change my entire career path?” he asked the production manager. “Not now,” she said, “we need to test chemistry.” “Chemistry? Like… actual chemistry?” “With Kiara. Focus.” That was worse. Much worse. Across the room, Kiara Rao was scrolling through her phone with the elegance of someone who could destroy a man’s ego by simply saying “hmm.” She looked up when Adil approached, her gaze scanning him like a faulty script. “You’re still here?” “Against all odds,” Adil muttered. “They want us to test more scenes.” “Brilliant. What’s next? You trip over your own face while trying to hold my hand?” “Only if you promise not to slap me halfway through the scene,” he retorted. Her lips twitched. Just for a second. Then the director clapped his hands. “Let’s do Scene 44! The cafe argument!” “What’s with all the arguing?” Adil asked. “Are they never happy together?” “It’s Bollywood,” Kiara replied. “We fight, we dance, we cry in the rain. Repeat.” He smirked. “Sounds emotionally exhausting.” “Better than emotionally boring.” She paused. “Let’s get this over with, Mr. Not-an-Actor.” The set had been dressed like an upscale café, complete with fake espresso machines and laminated menus that read “Mocha Latte ₹550.” Kiara took her place by the window, script in hand. Adil slid into the chair across from her. “This scene,” the assistant director whispered, “is the turning point. You’ve just told her you’re leaving the city. She’s furious but vulnerable. Don’t mess it up.” “Great,” Adil mumbled. “No pressure.” The camera rolled. Kiara looked up, eyes fierce. “You’re leaving without even saying goodbye?” “I left you a note,” Adil replied, reading from the script. “You left a receipt from the printing shop,” she snapped. “You ran like a coward.” “I didn’t run. I—” He stopped. Something in her expression — some unspoken hurt — threw him off script. He took a breath and improvised. “I thought leaving quietly would hurt you less than watching me fade out of your life.” A beat of silence. Even the cameraman held his breath. Kiara blinked, thrown off for the first time. Then she leaned forward, her voice lower, deadlier. “You don’t get to decide what hurts me.” The air between them changed. Words gave way to heat, challenge, something too sharp to be friendly. The director finally shouted, “Cut!” but no one moved. “That,” he said slowly, “was magic.” Kiara leaned back, studying Adil with new wariness. “Where did that line come from?” “I don’t know,” Adil admitted. “It just… made sense.” “Writers,” she muttered, “always bleeding into things they shouldn’t.” “Actors,” he shot back, “always pretending the blood isn’t real.” She stared at him a moment longer. Then stood up. “You’ll need to learn fast. This industry doesn’t wait.” “Neither does rent,” he muttered. “What?” “Nothing.” Over the next few days, the chaos deepened. Adil’s phone exploded with unknown numbers — producers, stylists, media interns asking for his blood group. Zubin was now his “coordinator,” which seemed to mean shouting at people to give Adil warm lemon water. The media caught wind of the sudden casting change, and buzzwords like “fresh face” and “experimental pairing” started appearing in gossip columns. One even ran a headline: “Kiara Rao’s New Hero: Hit or Hiccup?” Adil screenshot it and texted it to Kiara. Her reply came back within seconds. Stop reading trash. Learn your lines. On set, they argued. Constantly. About blocking, about tone, about whether his character would actually cry in a dream sequence. But something shifted. In between their creative clashes and stubborn retakes, Adil began noticing things. Kiara’s script was always full of notes, margins scribbled with motivation and subtext. She ran lines with the junior actors. She corrected her own makeup continuity. She never missed a beat, never broke character. And yet, between takes, she rarely smiled. Adil once caught her standing alone by the lights, looking utterly drained. “You okay?” he asked quietly. “I’m fine,” she said, too quickly. “You don’t have to be,” he replied. She looked away. “You’re weird.” “Thanks.” “It wasn’t a compliment.” “I know.” He didn’t ask again, but he started leaving her little things. A flask of adrak chai. A book with a sticky note: This character reminded me of you (in a good way). A scribbled joke on her mirror. She never mentioned them. But one day, she handed him a chocolate bar and said, “Don’t melt on set. That’s my job.” It was progress. The director added a dance number to boost audience appeal. Adil panicked. “I have two left feet!” “It’s Bollywood,” Kiara said. “Just move like your heart’s breaking.” “Isn’t that a bit dramatic?” “Exactly.” During rehearsals, she taught him how to fake twirls and lip-sync. “Don’t look at your feet,” she said. “Look at me.” “That’s dangerous.” “Only if you flinch.” And he didn’t. Not that time. Not when they danced. Not even when her hand lingered longer than the choreographer had asked. That night, as the crew wrapped and the set emptied, Adil found himself staring at the skyline from the studio rooftop. Kiara joined him, arms crossed, hair damp from the scene. “You still think you’re not an actor?” she asked. “I still think I’m pretending,” he replied. She smiled — not the camera smile, but something small and real. “That’s what acting is.” “And what about you? Are you always acting?” She was quiet for a long moment. Then she said softly, “Only when the cameras are off.” And suddenly, for the first time since he’d spilled soda on her at a party he didn’t belong to, Adil Mehta realized he was exactly where he was meant to be — under the stars, next to a woman he didn’t understand, in a world he never expected.

Part 3: Rewrites and Close-ups

By the end of the second shooting week, Adil had developed a tic. Every time someone shouted “Ready?” his right eye twitched involuntarily, as if warning him that something chaotic was about to happen. He now understood why actors took so many breaks, why chai was treated like holy nectar, and why every assistant director looked like they hadn’t slept since 2014. The film’s schedule had doubled in intensity, thanks to Adil’s accidental popularity. Behind-the-scenes clips of him stumbling over dialogue and Kiara smirking in exasperation had gone viral. The internet dubbed them “#KiaDil” and refused to believe they weren’t secretly in love. “We’re not even fake dating,” Adil muttered, scrolling through comments while getting his makeup done. “But we are fake fighting in public, so that counts,” Kiara said dryly from the next chair, eyes closed as a brush dabbed shimmer on her cheekbones. “Is that eyeliner or war paint?” he asked. “Depends who I’m facing.” “Ouch.” “Stop flirting,” she said without looking. “I’m not—” “You were.” The makeup artist stifled a laugh. “Five minutes to shoot!” someone yelled. Today’s scene was intimate. No yelling, no stormy exits, no dramatic monologues. Just the two characters sitting on the floor of a half-packed apartment, surrounded by boxes, eating leftover biryani and talking about fear. It was supposed to be a quiet emotional moment, but Adil was nervous. Too nervous. Not because of the camera, but because Kiara had stopped reading her lines during rehearsal. She was watching him. Really watching. “You okay?” he asked as they took their places. “Fine.” “You said that last time and then threw a cushion at my face mid-scene.” “That was improvisation.” “That was assault.” She looked at him, the smallest ghost of a smile appearing. “Don’t overthink it, Adil. Just talk to me like you would if we weren’t pretending.” “But we are pretending.” “Are we?” The clapboard clacked. The camera zoomed in. Kiara opened the Tupperware box in the scene, sniffed theatrically, and wrinkled her nose. “You always order too much.” “Because you eat like a squirrel and I eat like a novelist having a breakdown.” “Accurate.” “Do you ever get scared?” “Of biryani?” “Of… all this. People. Cameras. Letting them in.” Kiara paused. Her scripted line was a noncommittal shrug. But she didn’t say it. Instead, she asked, “Do you?” “All the time,” Adil replied, heart racing. “I’m scared that if I get used to this — the lights, the attention — it’ll vanish, and I’ll fall harder because I let myself believe I belonged.” She looked down at her hands, voice quieter. “I’m scared it won’t vanish. That it’ll stay forever. And I won’t know how to be a person without applause.” “Maybe we can be scared together.” “That sounds exhausting.” “That sounds honest.” Silence stretched. Then she looked up at him, something shifting behind her eyes. Vulnerability, maybe. Or something deeper. “Cut!” The director’s voice sliced through the moment. “That was… raw. We’ll keep it.” Adil exhaled. “Was that okay?” “Better than okay,” Kiara murmured. “You were… real.” He grinned. “So I’m learning?” “Barely. But you’re not unbearable anymore.” “High praise.” “Don’t let it go to your head.” After wrap, they walked out together for the first time. No entourage, no managers. Just them, sharing a rickshaw because Kiara had left her driver early and Adil refused to let her take an auto alone. The driver looked at them through the mirror with wide eyes. “You’re from that movie trailer, no?” “No,” Kiara said instantly. “Yes,” Adil said with a grin. She elbowed him. “We’re working. It’s not real.” “Says the woman who threw rice at me and made the nation swoon.” “It was a paper prop, and they swooned because I didn’t slap you.” They rode through Bandra’s evening traffic, the orange lights flickering like confetti through the narrow lanes. Somewhere near Hill Road, Kiara turned to him. “Why do you write?” “Because it’s the only thing that makes sense when everything else doesn’t.” “That’s dramatic.” “You wear heels to hospital scenes.” “Fair.” He looked out the window. “Why do you act?” “Because silence terrifies me.” The answer was so unexpected, so naked, that Adil turned to her and forgot what he was going to say next. She looked away, jaw tight. He didn’t ask further. That night, Kiara posted a photo on her Instagram — a behind-the-scenes shot of the floor scene, biryani boxes and all. The caption read: Sometimes, the best scenes are the ones where you stop performing. She didn’t tag him. But she didn’t have to. By the next morning, #KiaDil was trending again. Reporters speculated about their off-screen chemistry. Fan edits flooded YouTube. A popular gossip site posted: “Insiders Say Kiara Rao Is ‘Different’ Around Adil Mehta — Is Love Off the Script?” Adil laughed until he choked on his toast. Kiara texted: I hate the internet. He replied: Me too. Also, I may actually be blushing. She sent a voice note. Just one word. “Dork.” But her voice was softer than usual. A few days later, the dance sequence was scheduled. It was intense. Candlelight, slow steps, eyes locked. Adil kept forgetting the footwork, but every time he touched her waist, something electric buzzed between them. Not chemistry. Something less performative. More fragile. “Don’t look at your feet,” she whispered again. “I’m looking at you.” “Then stop flinching.” “I’m not flinching,” he whispered. “I’m falling.” Kiara froze. He hadn’t meant to say that aloud. The music stopped. The choreographer clapped. “Break!” Kiara walked off without a word. Adil stood alone on the glossy stage, lights blinding. Had he broken something? That night, no messages. No jokes. No “Dork.” Just silence. And Adil Mehta, suddenly unsure whether he was acting anymore — or just living through a script he hadn’t written, heart first.

Part 4: The Pause Between Lines

The silence lasted for three days. On set, Kiara was professional. Too professional. She hit her marks, delivered lines perfectly, and didn’t look at Adil unless the script told her to. No smirks, no sarcastic jabs, no chai-flavored conversations between takes. She had become the version of herself everyone expected—poised, precise, untouchable. And Adil hated it. “What did you do?” Zubin asked, chewing a protein bar while scrolling through memes. “Breathed wrong, probably,” Adil muttered. “Or maybe I blinked romantically.” “Did you touch her coffee mug?” “No.” “Good. Last guy who did that got fired.” Adil groaned. “She’s avoiding me.” “She’s not avoiding you. She’s… maintaining emotional hygiene.” “That sounds like something from a therapy podcast.” “It is.” “What happened to actors being messy and impulsive?” “She’s not most actors. You should know that by now.” He did. He knew too much now. He knew Kiara hummed a specific raga when she was anxious. That she always reread the last page of a book three times before closing it. That she carried a small pouch of sea salt in her bag — not for taste, but because her grandmother once said it kept envy away. He also knew that the moment he’d said “I’m falling,” she had looked like someone who’d heard a fire alarm in a room full of violins. The director had called a night shoot that day — a dream sequence set in the mountains. Fake snow, slow music, Kiara in a red shawl. Adil arrived on set wrapped in five layers and self-doubt. As the crew lit the scene, he found Kiara standing alone near the fog machine. He approached cautiously. “Hi.” She nodded. “Cold night,” he said. “Yep.” “Want to talk?” “Nope.” “Right.” He took a step back. Then stopped. “I didn’t mean to make things weird.” She turned to him. “You didn’t.” “Then why are you treating me like I’m a sound guy who mispronounced your name?” “Because I don’t know what this is, Adil,” she said quietly. “And I don’t want to feel more than what the script requires.” “But we’re not on script anymore.” “Exactly.” The fog drifted between them, slow and silent. “You said you were falling,” she continued, voice steady but her eyes not. “Do you mean that?” “Yes.” “Don’t.” “Why?” “Because I don’t want to catch you.” The words hit harder than he expected. She softened. “I don’t mean that cruelly. I mean—I don’t know how to do this. With someone like you. Someone who’s real when I’ve spent years pretending.” “You’re real too, Kiara. You just hide it better.” She smiled faintly. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me this week.” “High bar.” “We shoot in ten minutes,” she said, and turned away. But as she walked back to her mark, she paused, just for a second, and said over her shoulder, “Don’t stop being real. Even if I act like I hate it.” The dream sequence was stunning. They danced barefoot under artificial snow, their breath visible in the cold air, eyes locked in a longing neither of them dared name. The music swelled, and for one perfect take, Adil forgot the world existed outside the frame. He was just a boy, in love with a girl who lived behind a thousand camera lenses. When the director called “Cut,” the crew applauded. Someone whispered, “That was cinema.” Backstage, Kiara avoided him again. But this time, he understood. She wasn’t pushing him away because she didn’t feel it. She was scared because she did. The next morning, Adil received a message. We need to rewrite Scene 61. Meet me at the green room. Now. It was from Kiara. He ran. Scene 61 was supposed to be the confrontation—the moment the heroine tells the hero she’s leaving for a film project abroad, and he begs her to stay. Adil found Kiara pacing the green room, script in hand. “It’s not working,” she said. “The scene. It’s fake. I wouldn’t beg. You wouldn’t cry. We’d do something messier.” “What would we do?” She looked at him, then handed him a pen. “Rewrite it with me.” They sat on the carpet, shoulders touching, scribbling lines, scratching out clichés. At one point, she laughed—really laughed—when Adil suggested her character throws a shoe instead of a speech. “You’re an idiot,” she said. “But your idiocy is emotionally sound.” “That’s my tagline.” By the time they finished, the scene was raw, broken, beautiful. It was about not needing the other person to stay, but needing them to know they were wanted. When they performed it the next day, the entire set went silent. Even the boom operator had tears in his eyes. After the take, Kiara whispered, “That’s the closest I’ve come to being myself on camera.” Adil didn’t say anything. He just squeezed her hand once. And for the first time, she didn’t let go. Later that night, they stood outside the studio gate waiting for their cabs. The street was quiet. Mumbai had exhaled. Kiara looked at him. “Still falling?” “Every minute.” She hesitated. Then leaned forward, her lips brushing his cheek. “Next time, give me a chance to fall too.” And before he could say anything, she stepped into her cab and was gone, leaving Adil standing under a flickering streetlight, smiling like a man who had finally learned how to improvise—not on camera, but in life.

Part 5: Shooting Stars, Silent Hearts

The next few weeks moved like a dream dipped in caffeine and chaos. The shoot entered its final schedule, and with it came monsoon rains, last-minute script changes, and a new kind of tension — softer, quieter, pulsing just beneath the surface. Kiara didn’t avoid Adil anymore. She teased him, challenged him, argued over lens angles and character arcs. But now, there was warmth beneath her barbs, as if she were building a house with bricks made of banter. One night, the entire crew took a break to celebrate the wrap of the second act. Someone ordered cake, someone else brought a Bluetooth speaker that blared 2000s Bollywood hits, and the assistant makeup artist insisted on making everyone do the hook step of Desi Girl. Adil found Kiara standing on the edge of the crowd, sipping Sprite from a coffee mug. “Not dancing?” he asked. “I only dance when I’m paid to.” “Tragic.” “You’re enjoying this?” “Surprisingly, yes. I thought I’d feel like the odd one out. But they’ve stopped calling me ‘the emergency actor.’” “You earned your place,” she said, then hesitated. “You’ve earned more than that.” “Like a place in your phone contacts with an emoji next to my name?” “Don’t push it.” But she was smiling. Later that evening, when most of the crew had left, they ended up sitting on the prop bench from Scene 17 — the one where their characters first meet. It had been moved outside, under a tree strung with fairy lights for a promo shoot. “This movie’s almost over,” Adil said, watching the leaves tremble in the breeze. “Yeah.” “What happens when it’s done?” “You go back to writing awkward indie scripts that no one funds. I go back to playing intense women with unresolved trauma.” “And us?” “There’s no ‘us,’ Adil,” she said quietly. “There’s just you and me. And whatever strange constellation we’ve become.” He looked at her. “I’m okay with strange.” “I’m not,” she said. “I need structure. Rules. Endings.” “Then write one. But don’t shut the book yet.” She didn’t answer, just leaned her head on his shoulder. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fairy lights buzzed faintly. The city blinked in the distance. It was enough. The final song sequence was shot on location at a hill station — mist, waterfalls, and more color-coded clothing than Adil thought legally possible. The script called for a fantasy sequence: their characters, finally in love, dancing through a dreamscape that blended memory and metaphor. The choreography was fluid, but intimate. A hand tracing a shoulder. Fingers locking under a waterfall. Eyes meeting under wet hair. “You okay?” Kiara asked during rehearsals, noticing the tension in his jaw. “I’m… overwhelmed.” “Too close?” “Too much pretending.” She exhaled. “We don’t have to fake this part.” His eyes met hers. “You sure?” “Let’s just dance, Adil. If it’s real, let it be.” And so they danced. Not for the cameras. Not for the crew. Just for the wind, the rain, and the ache between beats. When the director shouted “Cut,” no one moved for a long moment. Then the claps came. Loud. Genuine. Adil and Kiara didn’t look away from each other. Not this time. That night, Adil stood by his hotel window, watching the fog roll in. His phone buzzed. Come outside, the message read. It was from Kiara. He grabbed a jacket and stepped into the chilly air. She was standing near the cliff edge, wrapped in a shawl, looking like a woman from another time. “Hey,” he said softly. “Couldn’t sleep,” she replied. “Too much adrenaline. And…” “And?” “I don’t know how to end this.” “The shoot?” “Us.” He took a step closer. “Who says it has to end?” “Because this world — the trailers, the cameras, the fragile magic — it fades. And when it does, people like me forget how to feel without direction.” “Then let me remind you,” he said, reaching out. She didn’t flinch. Just leaned into his touch. “I’m scared,” she whispered. “So am I.” They stood there, breath visible in the cold, hands tangled, unsure of what came next. And maybe that was okay. Maybe not every story needed a perfect third act. Maybe some stories lived in the pauses — in the unsaid, the almost, the hold-your-breath-and-hope. Behind them, the crew celebrated with fireworks. Ahead, the mist thickened. But between them — stillness. Closeness. A promise neither of them spoke aloud. Only held.

Part 6: Between Edits and Echoes

The movie wrapped on a Wednesday afternoon — the kind of anticlimactic finish that felt more like misplacing your keys than closing a chapter. One moment they were filming a chaotic airport goodbye scene with extras yelling in fake British accents, and the next, someone shouted “Pack-up!” and it was over. Just like that. Crew members cheered. The clapboard was signed. Selfies were taken, cakes were cut. Adil stood in the center of it all, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or run. “Congratulations, hero,” Zubin said, hugging him. “You actually made it to the end without fainting.” “I almost fainted during Scene 81.” “Fair. But hey, proud of you, man. You’re not a screenwriter who acts. You’re an actor who writes.” Adil smiled, but his eyes searched the crowd. Kiara wasn’t in the frame. She had left the set early, claiming she had a prior shoot for a luxury perfume campaign. No goodbye. No message. Just a vacuum. He tried not to read too much into it. He failed. Over the next few days, the world moved faster than he could. The trailer dropped and shattered every metric. Adil’s face was suddenly on posters, thumbnails, gossip reels. Comments flooded in — “Who’s the new guy?”, “Their chemistry is unreal”, “Kiara has never looked at anyone like this before.” His inbox overflowed. Three film offers. Two web series. A shampoo endorsement. “You’ve gone viral,” Zubin said, holding up his phone. “You’re now India’s most reluctant heartthrob.” But Adil didn’t care. Not really. All he wanted was a message. A call. A sign from the person who had made this entire chaos feel like home. Nothing came. Until one evening, while walking through Juhu with earphones in and a restless heart, he passed a magazine stand. There she was. Kiara Rao, glowing on the cover of Cinematique. The headline read: “Romance Is Best Left On Screen”. His stomach dropped. He bought the issue, fingers trembling. The interview was diplomatic, evasive. When asked about Adil, she’d said: “He’s a lovely co-star. Very talented. But I don’t mix reel with real.” That should have been enough. That should have been the end. But instead, it felt like a draft someone had sent without saving the final changes. That night, Adil stared at his laptop screen, trying to write, but the words were brittle. His characters sounded hollow. Dialogue clanged instead of clicked. He shut the lid and lay back, staring at the ceiling. This was what she had warned him about. Endings. Clean cuts. No bleeding into reality. But she hadn’t told him what to do with the ache that came after. A week passed. Then another. Until one day, he received a plain white envelope delivered to his building by courier. No sender. No logo. Just his name. Inside, a single sheet of paper. Scene 103: After the credits FADE IN:
INT. BOOKSTORE — EVENING
A man browses the poetry shelf, looking for meaning between verses. A woman enters. Quiet. Unsure.
He sees her. She sees him.
No lines. Just breath.
He smiles first.
She walks closer.
SHE
Off script yet?
HE
Completely.
SHE
Good.
She takes his hand.
FADE TO BLACK. Adil folded the paper slowly, heart thudding. The ink was in her handwriting. He didn’t call. He didn’t reply. He just went to the bookstore. The one where she once told him she hides when the world gets too loud. He waited. Fifteen minutes. Thirty. Then — a bell above the door chimed. She walked in. No makeup. No entourage. Just her, in jeans and a loose white kurta, hair tied up, eyes uncertain. “You got it?” she asked. “I did.” “Too much?” “Just enough.” Silence. Then — “I panicked,” she said. “When the film ended. When it stopped being pretend. I didn’t know how to hold on without a camera telling me where to stand.” “I was never acting, Kiara.” “I know.” “So what now?” She took a step closer. “We start a scene that doesn’t need direction.” “And if we mess it up?” “Then we rewrite.” He smiled. “Can I kiss you now, or do I need to check the continuity log?” She laughed. “Shut up and improvise.” And so he did. In a bookstore filled with paper dreams and unsold poetry, Adil and Kiara rewrote their own story. One pause at a time.

Part 7: Soft Launches and Silent Scripts

Kiara Rao didn’t believe in soft launches. Her world was loud — magazine covers, perfume commercials, paparazzi flashes that came with their own heartbeat. But with Adil, everything softened. There were no public declarations, no posts, no PR campaigns about their “relationship status.” Just quiet Sunday mornings, filtered chai, and the occasional eye roll when he tried to fry eggs and failed miserably. “You know,” she said one morning as he fumbled with a toaster, “for someone who writes dialogue like a poet, you’re absolutely hopeless in a kitchen.” “Maybe I’m a metaphor,” Adil replied. “Complex, undercooked, and occasionally flammable.” She laughed into her cup. That was the thing — they laughed. A lot. Sometimes in bed, tangled in sheets and stupid pillow talk. Sometimes during silent cab rides when an old Bollywood song would play and they’d both hum the wrong lyrics. Other times, even during fights — like the one about the toothbrush. “You used mine again,” she accused. “It was an emergency.” “How is brushing your teeth an emergency?” “I had a meeting with a streaming platform. My mouth had to pitch, too.” She threw a pillow at him. It landed with a thud. He kissed her before she could aim again. Still, not everything was rosy. There were potholes, always. Kiara had media obligations. Events, appearances, the occasional dinner with producers who looked at Adil like he was a background extra that had accidentally wandered into frame. Adil had scripts to write, characters that lived in his head rent-free. And insecurities. Always insecurities. “They don’t get it,” he said one evening after a film party. “They look at me like I’m just a phase you’re going through.” “Do you think that?” she asked. “No. But sometimes, I feel like I’m the indie book in your designer handbag.” “Then maybe that handbag needed better taste.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. She stepped closer. “I chose you, Adil. Not as a PR strategy. Not as a rebellion. As a person. As someone who looks at me like I’m more than just my poster versions.” “You are,” he said. “You’re so much more.” She rested her forehead against his. “Then don’t let them shrink you.” But sometimes, the shrinkage came from within. A casting announcement dropped online: Kiara was doing a big-budget historical romance — opposite her former co-star, Dev Sharma. The internet exploded. “Kiara-Dev Reunion!” “The chemistry is back!” “Bollywood’s royal pair rides again!” Adil didn’t say anything. Not for two whole days. Kiara noticed. “Spit it out,” she said finally. “It’s nothing.” “If I wanted ‘nothing,’ I’d date a potted plant. Say it.” “I’m jealous.” Her eyebrows rose. “Of Dev?” “Of how easily you fit into that world. The red carpets, the interviews, the glamour. I feel like I still have ketchup on my script pages.” She walked to him, cupped his face. “You grounded me when I was floating too high. You reminded me I have a soul beneath all the glitter. Don’t ever think you’re less.” “Then why do I feel like the interval in your movie?” “Because you’re used to exits. But I’m not letting you go at intermission.” And just like that, he believed her. Again. When the promotional tour for Monsoon Masquerade began, they made a pact — no romantic hints in public. No “we’re just good friends,” but also no “we’re definitely together.” “Let the film talk,” she said. “Let the scenes say what we can’t.” “And what about after?” “We’ll find our frame then.” But fans were not patient. The premiere arrived like a thunderstorm. Cameras, flashbulbs, velvet ropes. Adil walked the red carpet in a navy blue suit borrowed from Zubin’s more stylish cousin. Kiara stepped out in a deep maroon saree that made the crowd gasp audibly. When she reached him, she whispered, “You’re the only reason I don’t dread this anymore.” He smiled. “Same.” Interviews flew by — microphones shoved into faces, same questions recycled with new hashtags. One anchor asked, “So, Kiara, who was the better co-star — Adil or Dev?” Kiara smiled that perfect, enigmatic Kiara smile. “Let’s just say Adil taught me how to act like myself.” The anchor blinked, confused. Adil grinned like an idiot. The film premiered to thunderous applause. Critics praised the “authentic performances,” “electric tension,” and “unexpected emotional core.” The last twenty minutes — a montage of stolen glances, rain-kissed silences, and that bookstore scene — left people teary-eyed. The credits rolled. The audience rose. Kiara turned to Adil and whispered, “Ready for the real scene 103?” “What happens in it?” he asked. “Whatever we write next.”

Part 8: Scene 103, Take One

They never really wrote it down. Scene 103 was never inked in a script, never rehearsed under stage lights, never blocked by an assistant director with a stopwatch. It simply… happened. One slow morning in November, after the madness of the premiere had settled and the hashtags had cooled and the billboards started peeling in the rain. Adil was sitting on Kiara’s living room floor, surrounded by newspapers, notebooks, and half-drunk coffee. The city outside the window buzzed with its usual urgency, but inside, time moved like honey. Kiara walked out of her bedroom barefoot, in his old T-shirt and her own silence. She sat beside him without a word and reached for his mug. “You’ll hate it,” he warned. “I added cinnamon.” She sipped. “I regret nothing.” “Monster.” “Tragic romantic.” “Guilty.” They sat there, knee to knee, the sounds of a pressure cooker whistling in someone else’s kitchen echoing faintly through the building. Then, out of nowhere, she said, “Let’s move in together.” He looked at her, blinking. “That’s… sudden.” “You sleep here four nights a week. You keep your scripts in my bookshelf and your anxiety in my bathtub. We’re already unofficial roommates.” “I also leave crumbs in your bed.” “Which is unforgivable. But I’ll overlook it if you do the dishes.” “What brought this on?” She hesitated. “I’m tired of pretending there’s a line between ‘us on screen’ and ‘us in life.’ I don’t want edits anymore, Adil. I want raw footage.” He smiled, slow and stunned. “You really know how to ruin a man’s quiet breakfast.” “Say yes.” “You had me at cinnamon.” They didn’t post about it. There were no announcement selfies, no aesthetic photos of houseplants or moving boxes. Just one day, the neighbours noticed a new name added to the building’s delivery register: A. Mehta — Flat 4B. They built a life like they built their scenes — full of mistakes, retakes, and the kind of pauses that meant more than dialogue. Some nights were tender. Others tense. She’d forget birthdays; he’d forget to refill the gas. She liked her mornings silent; he wrote best while narrating everything out loud. But they tried. Every single day, they tried. One night, during a blackout, they sat on the floor with candles and listened to old radio plays on a dusty FM set Adil had rescued from a raddi shop. Kiara rested her head in his lap and whispered, “We’re boring now.” “Gloriously.” “Think the world’s ready for that?” “Let them keep guessing. We’ll keep living.” Offers kept coming — for her, bigger, glossier roles; for him, a chance to write and direct his own film. The kind of offer that came with three assistants, a Netflix pitch meeting, and a panic attack. “What if I mess it up?” he asked one night. “Then we edit,” she said. “But we keep your name on it.” “Even if it flops?” “Especially if it flops.” In return, he helped her rehearse for a gritty biopic where she had to play a war journalist. They rewrote lines together, sometimes fought over tone. But Kiara always came back with food and an apology folded in half. “I don’t do perfect,” she once told him. “I don’t need you to,” he replied. “Just do real.” “Real is terrifying.” “But it doesn’t require retakes.” One morning, after she left for a shoot, he opened his laptop and began writing a new script. The title at the top of the page read: Scene 103. The logline: A woman who only trusted stories learns to write her own. The protagonist was fierce, guarded, a little unbearable, and completely unforgettable. The male lead was quiet, clever, and sometimes too afraid to chase what he wanted — until he did. And the ending? There was none. Just a long, unfinished final scene labeled: To be continued, daily. Kiara returned home late that evening, kicked off her heels, and collapsed onto the couch. “My feet hate me.” “So does my back. I tried yoga.” “Why?” “To impress you.” “Did it work?” “I pulled something and screamed like a goat. So… no.” She laughed, then noticed his laptop. “What are you working on?” “Scene 103.” Her eyes widened. She walked over, knelt beside him, and read the first few lines. “This is us,” she said softly. “It’s not about us,” he said. “It is us.” “It’s about anyone who’s scared to begin because they’re too busy imagining the end.” She looked up. “Do we get a happy ending?” “We get a real one.” “That’ll do.” And she kissed him. Not like a scene. Not like a plot twist. But like a line that had always been waiting to be said.

Part 9: Continuity Errors and Honest Takes

There were days when everything clicked — when the mornings smelled like filter coffee and trust, when their hands brushed mid-conversation and neither pulled away, when the city’s noise seemed to blur out just enough to leave space for them. And then there were the other days. The ones with forgotten callbacks, overlapping schedules, sharp words exchanged over minor things that weren’t really minor. Like the morning Adil spilled water on Kiara’s annotated script. Or the evening Kiara snapped at him during a dinner with a casting agent. “You don’t get to look like that when I talk about my career,” she said under her breath after the fourth wine glass had been cleared. “Like what?” “Like I’m choosing it over you.” “Aren’t you?” “Don’t start.” “I’m not starting. I just… I’m trying to exist in your frame without feeling like a guest star.” She blinked, stung. “Then maybe stop acting like one.” The car ride home was silent. At their door, she handed him the keys. “You unlock it.” “What if I don’t know how anymore?” “Then we figure it out.” They didn’t talk much that night. But the next morning, Adil left a note on the kitchen table. It read: “I still choose you. Every day, even when the script feels broken.” And next to it, she left a single line on a Post-it: “Let’s rewrite the scene — not the cast.” Things got better. And worse. And better again. That was the rhythm of being with someone who saw the world in scenes and cuts and light levels. Who measured emotions by delivery and took silence as a line that needed context. One Sunday, as they watched an old Guru Dutt film in black and white, Kiara turned to him and said, “I think I want to take a break.” His heart paused. “From what?” “From the machine. Not from you. From the industry. The chase. I need to remember who I am when no one’s watching.” He nodded. “You think they’ll let you come back?” “I’m hoping they’ll still want me after I’ve come back to myself.” “And us?” “We stay. If you’ll have me when I’m quiet and strange and not Kiara Rao, Movie Star.” “I’ve always liked you better off-screen.” And that’s how she vanished. Not dramatically. No public announcement. Just slowly disappeared from the premieres, the reels, the events. The tabloids speculated. “Is Kiara Rao Done with Films?” “A Secret Pregnancy?” “A Spiritual Retreat in Kerala?” Adil read them all, shaking his head, sipping his tea. She was, in fact, in a two-room hill cottage near Lonavala, where the Wi-Fi barely worked and the mornings were filled with birds louder than the news. She painted. Badly. Sent him pictures of her misshapen mangoes and clouds she swore looked like goats. And every Friday, like a ritual, he visited her. With books, groceries, and new gossip from the city. “You’re the only person who thinks this life is newsworthy,” she told him once, folding laundry in her pajama set. “That’s because you’re the only headline I read.” He never stayed more than two nights. They liked the space. The coming and going. The sense that love didn’t have to be loud to be real. One night, under a sky swimming with stars, she asked, “Are we boring now?” “Unapologetically.” “Do you think they’d still root for us if this were a movie?” “Only if we add a tragic flashback and a dance number.” “We have the tragic flashback. I spilled ketchup on your original draft of Scene 103.” “That wasn’t tragic. That was sabotage.” She laughed, leaning into him. “So what do we do now?” “Live the credits. Together.” And they did. With burnt toast and slow days and arguments over the best kind of pillow firmness. With unexpected kisses in stairwells and messages sent from one room to another just because. They didn’t post it. They didn’t perform it. But it was theirs. Honest. Messy. Constantly rewritten.

Part 10: Fade In, Never Fade Out

It began like all great endings do — quietly. A breeze. A window left open. A script page fluttering to the floor. And in the middle of it all, Adil, sitting on the floor of their new apartment, typing with his legs crossed and spectacles slipping off his nose. Across from him, Kiara hummed a forgotten song, stirring daal with the distracted grace of someone who had once memorized five pages of dialogue in one take and now struggled to remember if she’d added salt. “Did I put salt?” she called. “You did,” Adil replied without looking up. “Twice.” “That’s a plot twist.” “So was the chilli you added instead of jeera yesterday.” She walked over, plopped beside him, and peeked at his laptop. “Scene 103 again?” “Always.” “Do I die this time?” “No. You live. Loudly. Softly. With me.” She smiled, cheek resting against his shoulder. “What’s the final line?” He turned the screen toward her. She read aloud: “They didn’t get the ending they rehearsed. They got something better — something real.” Kiara traced the words with her finger. “You’re still not submitting this script, are you?” “No.” “Why?” “Because this one’s not for them. This one’s ours.” The film industry waited. Offers still came in — glossy and tempting. But Kiara said no more than she said yes. She picked projects like she picked her earrings now — intentionally, one at a time, not needing to wear them all. Adil wrote slowly, carefully. Sometimes he directed too. Once, someone on set called him “Sir,” and he tripped over a cable out of sheer disbelief. “You’re turning into a proper professional,” Kiara teased later. “Let’s not start rumors,” he grinned. Their life wasn’t a montage. It was full scenes. Some awkward. Some beautiful. They went grocery shopping at midnight. Fought over crossword clues. Kissed in elevators when no one was looking. They didn’t get married. Not because they didn’t believe in it, but because the word never felt big enough to hold what they had. “This,” Kiara said once, lying on his chest as the ceiling fan sang a lullaby, “is more than vows. This is post-credits.” One afternoon, after a quiet lunch, she found him watching their film again — Monsoon Masquerade. He had paused it at Scene 32, the first real moment of crackling magic. “Why this one?” she asked. “Because this is where it stopped being acting.” She sat beside him. “We were so young. I had no idea what I was doing with you.” “Neither did I.” “And now?” “Now I still don’t — but I know I want to keep figuring it out.” She kissed his shoulder. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said in a T-shirt with a curry stain.” “It’s emotional foreshadowing.” “Of what?” “Dinner. Which you’re cooking.” “Tragedy.” They laughed until the sound spilled into the hallway. Neighbours complained later. They didn’t care. Years passed. Some friends drifted. Others stayed. They traveled, always off-season, always carrying books and sunscreen. Once, at an airport, a fan approached Kiara, thrilled. “You’re her! From that rain film! Oh my god, I love you guys together. You and… oh, what’s his name?” Kiara smiled. “This one?” she said, looping her arm through Adil’s. “He writes all my favorite endings.” The fan squealed and ran off. Adil looked at her. “That was smooth.” “I learned from the best.” “Flattery will get you sushi.” “You know me so well.” “Still figuring you out.” “Good. Don’t stop.” They never stopped. Not really. Through awards and absences, colds and crowded holidays, interviews and inertia. Through the silence between two scenes, the laughter between two takes. In one of Adil’s later scripts, there’s a line where the protagonist says, “Love is not about who makes your heart race. It’s about who remembers your tea order during a thunderstorm.” Kiara read that and threw a cushion at him. “Stop writing me into everything.” “I’m not.” “Liar.” “It’s not my fault the world keeps reminding me of you.” “Dramatic.” “Real.” And in that script, there was a scene with two people — in a bookstore, no cameras, no music. Just two hands reaching for the same novel. They look up. They smile. One says, “Ready?” The other replies, “Always.”

FADE TO BLACK.
THE END