Reeling.

The air smells of popcorn. There is a hush, the kind that comes with everyone's collected bated breath at something that's about to happen. They pass a cigarette back and forth, a ring of cherry lipstick and one of beer breath. The usher doesn't bother even though smoking isn't permitted.

It's a rundown theatre that shows movies that not many want to go for. Korean action films and French films where women wear perfume and eat croissants with the Eiffel tower in the background. Movies where people walk out out the theatre wanting to making their own. The variety where people jot down notes on the back of ticket stubs because this isn't just film, it's an education.

They watch these movies every weekend and go back to discuss it over tea.They write down disconnected sentences which spark off a journey of thoughts. They look over into each other's writing because sometimes the best work just needs inspiration worthy of it. They write stories that get locked into their desks at home or forgotten in old notebooks. 

The day the theatre is torn down, they stand outside not sad but a little lost. There's a void on the weekend that alcohol doesn't fill and regular cinema doesn't satiate. The writing is forced to the point of unbearable. 

They don't make it as writers or movie-makers. They never planned to. They realize that they needed something to hold everything together. And while that can be replaced, you'd rather you didn't have to.