U. Wet Paint & Wandering Eyes

The car hummed as it rolled down the uneven road, tires bumping over the occasional pothole. Outside, the city lights flickered between passing trees, casting brief shadows across Shraddha's face. She sat in the front seat, staring out of the window, her expression unreadable.

In the back, Teena was practically bouncing in her seat, talking a mile a minute.

"You won't believe how many people came to my last gallery show! And guess what? One of the buyers was this hotshot businessman ugh, I forgot his name but he loved my collection! I told him, 'Art isn't just about money, sir, it's about emotion,' and boom! He doubled the price!" She clapped her hands, giddy with excitement.

Shraddha gave a polite smile, but I noticed it didn't quite reach her eyes. Something felt off.

I lightly touched her arm, leaning forward between the seats. "What's wrong?" I mouthed.

She shook her head, brushing me off with a forced smile. Nothing, her eyes said, but her tight grip on the hem of her kurti told me otherwise. I let it go for now.

My phone buzzed in my lap, the screen lighting up with my mom's name. I sighed and put it on silent. Not now. The car ride was noisy enough with Teena's non-stop talking, the occasional honking from impatient drivers, and the rhythmic swishing of trees zipping past us.

By the time we pulled up in front of my house, I barely had time to step out before my mom's voice cut through the air.

"You don't pick up your phone? What if I died? Then you'd find out?"

I sighed. "Maa, you're not gonna die"

She huffed, crossing her arms. "You don't even sit with me to eat! At least answer my calls!"

I glanced at Shraddha, who was unlocking her room, her back turned to us. Teena, ever the mood-lifter, nudged me and whispered, "Your mom's got some drama in her. But hey, I respect that."

I rolled my eyes. Shraddha disappeared into her room without a word. That same gloomy expression still clung to her face.

Teena, oblivious, grinned. "Anyway, Shraddha, you are insanely talented! I've chosen the right person for this project!"

Shraddha didn't even say thank you.

Undeterred, Teena pulled out her checkbook. "I'll pay you 10% as an advance right now." She signed a cheque with a flourish and then turned to me. "By the way, I need your number."

I gave it to her, and she smirked. "Once you're done with this painting, come with me to London. I'll show you my gallery there. You love looking at paintings, right?"

"Yes, I do," I said.

After Teena left, I headed to Shraddha's room. Something about her silence was bugging me.

"What was that? Why were you so rude to Teena?"

"Me? I didn't say anything," she said, tossing a brush onto her desk.

"Exactly. That's the problem. Something is definitely wrong! Tell me, why are you acting so dramatic?"

"Dramatic? Come on, Divya! As if you think I" She stopped mid-sentence, her expression shifting like she'd just realized something.

"You what?" I asked, folding my arms.

"Nothing. Just... give me some time to figure things out," she muttered and pushed me out of her room.

I sighed. Maybe Shraddha's gone crazy. With nothing better to do, I called Vishwas.

"What's up? Enjoying Pune?" I asked.

"Yeah, but I'm at a ghazal show. I'll call you later, it's noisy here," he replied.

Everyone was busy. What should I do now? Talk to Teena? Ugh, seriously, Divya?

I turned toward my room, I left her room, She closed her door, After few minutes and I checked. I noticed Shraddha's door was open again.

"Come to my room," she said. "I need to make a portrait of you."

"Okay, but let me freshen up first. I'm tired"

"There's no need to doll yourself up. I'll paint you as you are," she snapped.

I raised an eyebrow. "Fine, but wouldn't it turn out better if I looked good? It's your gain, isn't it?"

"Whatever. By the way, what's with Teena clinging to you? She'd probably prefer a nude portrait of you," she said with a smirk.

I burst out laughing. "I'm not bold enough to sit naked in front of you for ten hours."

"Who cares about me? Teena's the one who'll hang your portrait in her gallery."

"True," I admitted, still giggling. "Anyway, let me change"

She grabbed my wrist. "I said, SIT AS YOU ARE."

"Alright, alright!"

I sat down, but my head was spinning. What does this woman even want?

"Don't move," she ordered.

I stilled. My hair slipped over one eye, probably making me look like some dramatic movie villain. Shraddha's gaze flickered to it, and before I could react, she tucked my hair behind my ear.

Her fingers moved so slowly like, the slowest ever. Like a turtle in a slow-motion movie, as if she were tracing every strand. Was this some new painter's technique? To feel the subject's hair before painting?

"My hair's back now. Why are you still standing?" I muttered.

She blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, and stepped back. "Just sit still."

Shraddha's eyes darkened with focus as she studied me. From the sharp curve of my jaw to the faint shadows beneath my eyes, she took in every detail like she was memorizing a poem with her brush. Her pupils flickered with the reflection of the lamp's glow, and for a second, I swore she wasn't just looking at me, she was seeing me.

She tilted her head slightly, her messy bun slipping loose, a few strands falling over her forehead. Without realizing it, she tucked them behind her ear with the same fingers that had just touched my hair.

Her gaze dropped lower, lingering at my neck. She watched how my pulse moved, how the collar of my faded T-shirt curved against my skin.

"Are you painting or staring?" I teased, trying to break the silence.

Her lips twitched, but she didn't look away. Instead, she dipped her brush into deep red and dragged it across the canvas, her wrist moving in smooth, practiced strokes. The sound of bristles against the rough fabric filled the air.

Her hands worked like they had a mind of their own, dipping into a mix of cool blues and muted oranges, blending shades as if she were sculpting my face with color instead of clay.

When she reached for a thinner brush, her fingers smudged a bit of charcoal onto her sleeve. She didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she didn't care. The old, oversized kurta she wore already had paint stains across the chest and cuffs, proof that she had lost herself to her art more times than she could count.

I watched her fingers, speckled with dry pigments, as they traced the curve of my cheek on the canvas. She was capturing me, layer by layer, shadow by shadow.

Her dark eyes flickered down, lingering at my lips. My breath caught. The room suddenly felt too warm.

Still, she didn't look away. If anything, her lips curved slightly, the hint of a smirk playing at the edges.

"You're a difficult subject," she murmured.

"Excuse me?"

Shraddha finally turned back to her canvas, dipping her brush into deep red, but her smirk remained. "You move too much. And your lips..."

I narrowed my eyes. "What about my lips?"

"They have too many expressions," she said, swirling the paint. "Makes them hard to capture."

I folded my arms. "So that's why you were staring at my lips like you were about to—"

I stopped myself. Nope. Not finishing that sentence.

Shraddha didn't even blink. She simply picked up a finer brush and added casually, "You should sit still, though. Unless you want me to come closer and fix your posture myself?"

I nearly choked.

"What the hell is wrong with you today?" I snapped, my cheeks heating up.

She laughed, a slow, quiet laugh, as if she was enjoying this way too much. "Nothing," she said, finally looking away and focusing on her brushstrokes. "Just figuring things out."

I huffed, crossing my arms tighter. "Tui ekdom aladtai kortish ajke! (You're acting weird.)"

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"Toh ekta jaegay boshe thak na, bodmaaish! (Then sit still,)" she said, her voice lower this time, almost teasing. "Or I might keep looking."

My heart did something stupid in my chest.

I didn't even know if I wanted to punch her or run.

Or worse sit still and let her keep looking me. Something even I didn't understand.