The Screening Room

The flickering light of the projector danced across the dusty screen, casting long shadows across the small, cluttered room they affectionately called “The Screening Room.”

It wasn’t much a converted storage space in Maya’s building, walls painted a deep, almost theatrical red, furnished with mismatched armchairs and a vintage projector Rohan had salvaged from a flea market. But for Maya and Rohan, it was their sanctuary, their portal to other worlds.

Every Sunday evening was their ritual. They’d choose a classic film, often something obscure or forgotten, and lose themselves in the magic of storytelling. Rohan, a film student with a wild mane of dark hair that perpetually fell into his expressive eyes, would dissect each scene with infectious enthusiasm.

He’d point out subtle camera angles, analyse the use of light and shadow, and share fascinating anecdotes about the actors and directors. Maya, a budding graphic designer with a quiet intensity that masked a deep well of emotion, wasn’t a film student herself, but she was utterly captivated by Rohan’s passion.

She loved the way his face lit up when he talked about his favorite films, the way his voice would deepen with emotion during poignant scenes.

She remembered one particular Sunday, they were watching a classic Italian romance, “Cinema Paradiso.” During the iconic scene where the projectionist shows the young Toto a montage of kissing scenes censored by the local priest, Rohan turns to her, a soft smile playing on his lips. “These moments,” he whispered, his voice barely audible above the film’s score, “these are the moments that stay with you.

The moments that make you believe in the power of love, the power of connection.” He gently took her hand, his fingers interlacing with hers. It was a small gesture, but it sent a shiver of warmth through Maya, a feeling of deep connection that transcended words.

Another memory surfaced, a rainy Tuesday afternoon. Rohan had surprised her at her design studio with a thermos of hot chai and a stack of old movie posters he’d found at a vintage shop. They’d spent the afternoon huddled together, sipping chai and laughing as they debated the merits of each poster, their conversation drifting from film to art to life itself.

It was in those quiet moments, amidst the shared laughter and whispered conversations, that their bond had truly deepened.

She remembered one particular Sunday, they were watching a classic Italian romance. During a particularly heart-wrenching scene, where the lovers were separated by fate, Rohan turned to her, his eyes glistening. “Imagine,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “telling a story that can move people like this, that can stay with them long after the credits roll. That’s what I want to do, Maya. That’s what I have to do.”

Maya smiled, her heart swelling with affection. She knew how much this meant to him. “I know you will, Rohan,” she said, gently squeezing his hand. “You have a gift. You see the world in a way that no one else does.”

Rohan’s dream was to create a film that explored the complexities of human connection, the unspoken language of love and loss. He’d spent months meticulously crafting the script, a deeply personal story inspired by his own experiences and observations.

He’d even secured a small grant from the university to begin production. The excitement was palpable, radiating from him like a tangible force. Maya had become his closest confidante, his first audience, his unwavering source of support. She’d listened patiently as he described his vision, offering feedback on his script, helping him scout locations, and even designing the film’s logo a stylized image of a flickering candle, symbolising the enduring power of stories to illuminate the darkness.

Then, the world tilted on its axis. A phone call in the middle of the night, a frantic rush to the hospital, the sterile scent of antiseptic, the hushed whispers of the doctors. A car accident. Rohan was gone.

The Sundays that followed were a torturous echo of what once was. Maya found herself drawn back to The Screening Room, the empty chair beside her a constant, painful reminder of Rohan’s absence.

The flickering light of the projector now cast shadows of grief across the room, the silence broken only by the faint whirring of the machine. The air hung heavy with the ghost of his laughter, the phantom scent of his cologne.

One evening, weeks after the accident, Maya sat alone in the darkness, staring at the blank screen. The projector remained off, the room shrouded in a heavy silence.

She closed her eyes, and a flood of memories washed over her, Rohan’s infectious laugh, his passionate explanations of film techniques, the way he would always offer her the last bite of his popcorn, even though she always insisted he take it.

She remembered the warmth of his hand in hers during “Cinema Paradiso,” the shared laughter over terrible movie posters on a rainy afternoon.

Suddenly, an image flashed into her mind, Rohan’s script, lying untouched on his desk. He’d shown her the final draft just days before the accident, his eyes brimming with pride. A wave of determination surged through her, cutting through the fog of grief. She wouldn’t let his dream die with him. She would finish his film.