D. Too much green

"Mind your own business! I can't believe my mom put you in the room next to mine."

Where did that come from? Did I sound angry? What a crazy girl she is. Or am I the crazy one? Does she seriously think I care? Or worse, does she think Vish and I... Oh God, no!

"Calm down. Chill. Why don't you have some tea? It might tame your inner tiger," she said with a grin, waving an imaginary teacup.

"Don't push me, you lunatic! Or I'll eat you alive," I growled, frustrated beyond words.

To my horror, she burst into laughter like I'd just delivered the punchline of the century. Her smirk widened as she asked, "Tane really mane khava nu che? Umm, sorry, do you actually want to eat me?"

I glared. "You're impossible. Your mind is so twisted, it could rival Picasso's abstract paintings."

Speaking of Picasso, my eyes landed on the book in her hand. It had fallen during our little spat.

"Do you like Picasso?" I asked, desperate to change the subject and sound remotely civil.

"No, but I like the book. I love painting, though," she replied casually, shrugging.

"Tumi painting bhalobasho?" I blurted out without thinking.

She blinked. "Bengali?"

"Oh, right. Sorry. I mean, do you love painting?" I corrected myself in one breath, realizing my Bengali slip. My heart raced like I'd just sprinted a marathon, and I wasn't sure if it was the excitement of the topic or sheer embarrassment.

"Uh, yeah?" she said, looking at me like I had sprouted a second head.

I leaned in eagerly. "Have you made any paintings? Do you have any here?"

"Ha, I even sell some of them," she replied, her voice tinged with suspicion, like she was trying to figure out why I suddenly cared so much.

"Can I see them? In your room?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly, probably thinking I was borderline unhinged. I couldn't blame her, I was practically vibrating with excitement.

Later, I washed my hands (because no respectable art admirer touches someone else's work with grubby hands) and entered her room. It was an explosion of colors, brushes, and canvases. Books about famous painters spilled off shelves, and her walls were practically screaming with green—green skies, green oceans, green people.

"Do you really like green?" I asked, bewildered.

She plopped down in her chair, arms crossed. "No. I just bought too much green paint, so now I'm stuck with it."

I couldn't help but laugh. "That's fair."

But before I could unleash my flood of art-related questions, she cut me off. "Go do something useful. Don't you have work, or do you just enjoy loitering in people's rooms?"

Ouch! Ouch! I felt like a kicked puppy. But I didn't want to leave yet. I wanted to keep asking about her paintings, but her tone reminded me that we'd started this whole interaction as mortal enemies. Swallowing my ego (with considerable difficulty), I asked, "Are you free?"

She raised an eyebrow, tying her hair in a no-nonsense bun. "No, I'm very busy." Her body language screamed I'm ready to throw hands if this gets annoying.

"What do you want?"

I panicked. "A date?"

Her eyebrows shot up. "A date? Is this your new way of mocking me?"

"No! I mean, my friend wants to go on a date with you. Would you, um, consider it?"

"Your friend? Male or female?"

"Male. His name is Vishwas. He's a great guy, and he really likes you. Please give him a chance."

She stared at me for a moment, then grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled something on it. "Fine. Tell your friend to bring me these brushes and paints. Then I'll go on the date."

I couldn't believe, this could actually work! If she dated Vish, I could be friend with her. I will talk about painting.

Just as I was leaving with the paper in hand, she called out, "Wait."

I turned around, my heart doing a little hopeful leap. She folded her arms and said, "I can never be your friend. Don't even try."

And just like that, my hopeful leap turned into a faceplant.