V. Smelled like her soft

"Sorry, guys! The wrong chapter was uploaded today. Please erase it from your memory. Dabra ka dabra chooo mantar... poof! You forgot it."

My mind was in absolute chaos. Thoughts swirled, contradicting each other, pushing her into a confusing, tangled mess. Her body tensed as she sat on the chair, but instead of curling up in distress, she sprawled out, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, legs crossed with a careless confidence. If she couldn't control her thoughts, at least she could control her posture. Messy hair, slightly smudged kohl under her eyes she looked like a rebellious queen, unfazed, unbothered, untamed.

Shraddha, on the other hand, was fuming. The irritation in her eyes burned brighter than any color on her canvas. Her grip on the paintbrush tightened as she glared at me.

My Mind is thinking, I knew girls are beautiful, but Shraddha is overly simple. Still, looking beautiful isn't easy word. I wish I had feelings, because then I would date someone like Shraddha. No, definitely not. I'm a girl, right? So I'd definitely date a boy like Shraddha. My thoughts will drive me insane. Stop it, Divya!

Shraddha scoffed, crossing her arms. "Drink some water. Let's take a break. I look like a living corpse right now. Blink your eyes at least! Why act so much? I get it, I am painting 'The Teena's' favorite one."

I smirked, her confidence slipping back into place. "Are you jealous of me? So many people love me."

Shraddha's jaw clenched. "No, I'm not! Why would it matter to me? You don't love anyone anyway."

"Yes! But still, it feels good when so many people like me."

Shraddha's frustration boiled over. "What do they even see in you? There's nothing," she snapped, her eyes flaring with anger.

I tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness. "Well, you wouldn't get it. You're a girl after all. Ask Vishwas, he's crazy about me."

Shraddha laughed coldly. "No, he's not crazy. He likes boys. Maybe you just look like one!"

I sat up straighter, narrowing my eyes. "What's your problem? Do you want to fight? How I look shouldn't bother you." As she shifted, a strap of my bra peeked out.

Shraddha took a step closer and swiftly adjusted it for my, my voice sharp. "Is it necessary?"

"What?" WHY my voice was high-pitched, awkward, yet forced with fake confidence. my expression, however, was completely innocent with a hint of anger.

"To charm everyone?" she smriked

I exhaled slowly, my fingers tapping against my knee. "I don't do anything. I actually wish they wouldn't like me. You know the reason."

Shraddha's gaze darkened. "Yes! I knew you wanted this. Liar!"

What do I do with her? What has she even smoked? I don't understand what happens to her sometimes. I picked up a bottle of water and drank it, then went to sit on the sofa then walked back to the bed and plopped down carelessly, legs spread slightly, one arm resting over the backrest like I owned the place.

Shraddha's eyes twitched the moment she saw her, "SIT PROPERLY. No need to ACT all HOT."

Cough! Was that a compliment, or do I genuinely not understand what's happening?

I sat upright, and she started painting again. Sitting behind the canvas, staring at the paint, it was so calming for me. Her legs swung playfully like a child's, and she absentmindedly chewed on the end of one brush while another was tucked behind her ear. I was about to fall shutting my eyes when Shraddha said,

"What are you doing? Don't sleep here."

"I'm so, sooooo sleepy." I fell asleep on the sofa. Comfortable and cozy, with paintings all around, I drifted into a peaceful sleep.

Shraddha stood there for a moment, watching Divya, then brought a blanket. She dimmed the lights, put her phone on silent, found it, and silenced it too. She sat on the bed, lost in her thoughts, then came to check on her again. Divya was snoring by now. Seeing this, Shraddha chuckled.

Divya adjusted the dark chocolate-colored blanket, its softness reminding  of the first time Divya hugged Shraddha. A faint, familiar scent lingered, making Divya feel as if she were wrapped in Shraddha's warmth. She held the blanket close, almost hugging it unconsciously.

Then, Sharddha is noticing hair falling on Divya's face, she tied it into a little loose ponytail and whispered softly,

"Now no one will bother you. my tiny cute puppy"

She smiled and then went back to sit on the bed. A few seconds later, she returned to the canvas in front of the sofa. She picked up the brush, changed the page, and started painting again. She kept glancing at Divya while painting. She stared at her painting, a warm love blooming in her chest. But her body felt tired now, her eyes growing heavy. She tried to fight the sleepiness, blinking slowly as she glanced at Divya, like a thief caught in the act, stealing moments of admiration, but without the usual graceful gaze she always gave her.

Meanwhile, Divya slept peacefully, wrapped in Shraddha's blanket. Divya is thinking, It smelled like her soft, warm, and comforting, like a quiet warm hug. She shifted slightly, feeling the fabric against her skin, her sleepy mind whispering, 'This feels like her.' But then she jolted, suddenly aware of her thoughts. 'Why am I even thinking this?' Her face scrunched in irritation, and she turned over, burying her face in the blanket as if that would erase her confusion.

It was 4 a.m. when I woke up and saw Shraddha asleep on the chair, her hand dangling, and the brush fallen on the floor.

I picked it up and looked at the painting. Shraddha had painted me while I was sleeping. I looked so cute, like a puppy? My eyes... she added so much detail, as if she were teasing me, sketching them with such focus. I might just fall in love with myself. I wish I could paint like that. I thought, "Let me try it too."

If it works out, great. Otherwise, things are fine as they are. I grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil near Shraddha and I started drawing. No matter what I tried, I couldn't figure out what to draw. Apple? Sofa? A chicken riding a bicycle? A sofa that eats apples? I thought about sketching the room but failed. Then I thought of drawing the night sky, the stars, and the moon. it seemed easy but wasn't. After 86 attempts, I gave up.

I put in so much hard work, sweating as I sketched, pouring every bit of effort into it.Meanwhile, I was having a crisis. I put in so much hard work, sweating like I had just run a marathon except my opponent was a piece of paper. I was throwing sheets left and right, each failure more painful than the last. My fingers ached, my brain felt like a fried pakora, and yet, my sketch looked like something a blindfolded toddler had drawn.

Morning had come. It was 6 a.m. and I still hadn't drawn a single decent line. My expression was determined, intense like a pro artist lost in creation. But the reality? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. My frustration grew as I stared at the blank page, gripping the pencil like I was about to fight it.

I decided to give up. It wasn't my thing. Then I glanced at her. She had fallen asleep. As I was about to leave it, I thought, "Why not draw myself sleeping?" But I dropped the idea.

I went downstairs and saw that Mom had served food on a plate. But did I eat? Of course not. Idea!!! The artist inside me was awakened! I grabbed some paper and rushed back to Mom's room. I had a grand idea to sketch her while my mom slept.

"Get it together, Divya! You're strong now. These old memories can't haunt you anymore. I couldn't find peace, but I can search for it again. Its okay. you do not hate your mom."

I was mid-sketch, fully immersed in my masterpiece, when Mom woke up, blinked at me like she'd seen a ghost, and then screamed, "Oh, God! what are you doing in my room like some creepy horror movie spirit?!"

Before I could explain my artistic vision, a pillow flew straight at my face. I barely dodged it, but my perfect sketch? Ruined. A long, stupid line slashed across it like some tragic backstory. I sat there, staring at my lost masterpiece, unsure whether to cry or throw a tantrum.

But then, seeing Mom's horrified expression, I burst out laughing like full-on, stomach-clutching, can't-breathe laughing. Mom stayed angry for a moment, but eventually, she started laughing too.

"You crazy girl! Come on, make some tea."

Wait. Mom was assigning me a household task? Me? Since when?! But there was just one tiny problem I had no idea how to make tea. So, like any responsible adult, I sprinted upstairs and violently shook Shraddha awake.

"What?!" she groaned, her voice a mix of sleep and rage.

"I need to make tea!"

She stared at me like I had just announced I was moving to the moon. "Okay... so make it."

"But I don't know how!"

She turned to her side, half-asleep, and mumbled, "Tea leaves, sugar, water, milk. Done."

That was it? That was the great mystery of tea-making? It sounded too simple. Suspiciously simple. but

"Nope! You're coming with me."

Before she could protest, I dragged her out of chair and down the stairs, still half-asleep. Mom was already making tea, and I boldly declared, "Mom, let me handle it!"

Mom, probably too stunned to argue, said, "Fine. Just don't burn the house down. I'm going to get more milk. The water's already boiling. Add the rest."

The second she left, I turned to Shraddha, my eyes wide with panic. She smirked, clearly enjoying my misery.

"Take the Chai pati ( tea leaves)," she instructed.

"How many spoons?"

"Three."

"Then milk, right?"

"Three cups."

"So everything is three?"

"We're making it for three people."

That logic was too solid to argue with. I dumped everything in, feeling victorious. Then Shraddha, with a devilish grin, added, "Now put in some ginger."

I tossed in a heap of it without thinking. Mom returned just as I finished, looking at me with mild concern.

"The tea is ready. Just strain it. I got bread, eat something with your masterpiece."

Straining the tea. Simple, right? WRONG. The second I lifted the pot, disaster struck. My hands wobbled like I was carrying molten lava, and hot tea splashed everywhere. Shraddha quickly pushed me aside, sighing, "At this rate, we'll be drinking air."

Thank the heavens Mom was too absorbed in her newspaper to notice the tea massacre.

Finally, I presented the tea to Mom. She sipped it slowly while I stood there, holding my breath.

Then she said, "Shraddha, did you teach her? This actually tastes like your tea."

"I made it!" I announced proudly.

Mom blinked at me. "It's good."

I wanted to scream, throw my heart, or break into a victory dance but I played it cool. Shraddha, however, was visibly shaking, struggling to contain her laughter.

I grabbed my cup and sprinted upstairs. Once alone, I finally let loose. A full monkey dance, channeling my inner gorilla, my arms flailing like an uncoordinated mess. I was feeling the tea-fueled celebration in my bones.

And then, of course, Shraddha walked in.

I froze mid-dance, looking like I'd been caught committing a crime.

She crossed her arms. "Why do you show up everywhere?"

I scrambled to save face. "Nothing! Just... stretching."

She smirked. "By the way, the tea was actually good."

And just like that, she burst into laughter. My face burned with embarrassment.

Shraddha had caught me in my most ridiculous moment. The horror. The shame.

But hey, at least I could make tea nowwwwwwwwwwww.