W. Her grip tightened.

I shouted, "Ei jao ekhane theke. (Go away from here.)"

I slammed the door shut, the force rattling the frame. A few seconds later, I realized I had left the sketch in my mom's room. Annoyed, I went to retrieve it, but the moment I looked at it again, I felt a wave of embarrassment. The lines were awkward, the proportions all wrong. It looked like something a child would scribble. Maybe that was the moment I realized, maybe painting wasn't for me.

I sighed and went back to my room, staring at the sketch in disappointment. Then, a knock on the door.

"What's up?" I asked, opening it.

Shraddha stood there, her face unreadable, but her fingers curled slightly at her sides, pressing into her palms. "Teena has come."

"Huh?" I groaned.

Teena stepped in before Shraddha could reply. "Take a break from painting today."

What?

She glanced at the sketch lying on my bed and let out a short laugh. "This looks like something a kid made." Teena picked

I felt a heat rise to my cheeks and looked away. Shraddha, however, took from her. Her expression remained neutral, but her fingers smoothed the edges of the page unnecessarily, as if trying to iron out its flaws. Her grip tightened for a moment before she folded it neatly and kept it with her.

Shraddha turned to Teena. "Do you know painting?"

"No, but I judge it. My job is buying and selling."

"I thought you were a painter." Shraddha's tone was casual, but her hand fidgeted with the paper, fingers tracing over the creases she had just made. "By the way, do you know? No matter how the painting looks, it's the truth behind it that's more important than just the paper filled with colors."

"That's a bit too deep. Do you write?" Teena teased.

"No, my grandfather used to say so."

"I can never understand what your grandfather said." Teena rolled her eyes.

Shraddha didn't respond. Instead, she turned and left the room. I noticed the way she hesitated at the door for a fraction of a second before stepping out. The way she clenched and unclenched her fingers as she walked away, as if she wanted to hold on to something but couldn't.

Teena closed the door and turned to me. "You know I have a lot of money."

I am still thinking something.

she aksed "are you there?"

I asked. "What happened to you? Early this morning?"

"You know I have a lot of money."

"Yes," I said, laughing nervously. It was weird but true.

"But my life is full of six breakups and one divorce. My mind is filled with trauma. I've never had peace in my life, and I was the happiest in school. Now, I'm still chasing that happy girl."

"All this."

She cut me off. "Don't misunderstand me, but I need you. I'm going through depression and anxiety. Everything feels mixed up. I'm fading away. Therapists just tell me to sleep, but I don't want to sleep. I want to be happy. I have no reason."

"I'm sorry, but why are you telling me all this? I can't do anything."

"I know you can't do anything, but you'll say I came out of nowhere. The only happy memory I have is from school. Just help me relive that memory. I feel numb, like there's neither happiness nor sadness."

"I'm not scared but... Teena. This is difficult. How?"

"Just stay with me. You're my last hope."

"Stay with you?"

"Yes. Just stay with me, I'll pay. One lakh salary. Just stay with me, live in my room, move into my house."

"Look, I want to help, but this isn't possible. I'll try to bring happiness into your life, but I can't be far from my home."

She looked anxious, but in a split second, her expression changed like flipping a switch. She smiled, eyes bright with excitement. "Then I'll come. Shraddha is a tenant, I know. Kick her out. I can give more. I'll talk to your mother."

My stomach twisted. Anger flared in my chest, but I took a long breath, forcing myself to stay calm.

"Give me some time to think."

The door creaked open. Shraddha was at the far end of the room, painting. Her brush moved steadily, but her other hand rested on the edge of the table, fingers tapping in an erratic rhythm. I walked over.

"If you're getting good money, will you stay there? You can live in a bigger room."

She didn't respond at first. Her brush slowed, her grip tightening. Then, after a pause, she said lightly, "That's true! This is my dream. My big house. hurre!"

She was smiling, but her fingers trembled slightly as she dipped the brush into the paint.

I sat on the sofa, watching her carefully. "You'll get a better way to paint."

She hummed in response, her lips still curved into a smile, but her hand told another story.

Shraddha asked, "Yes, but where's the money right now?"

"I'll give you the money, go."

"Why will you give? Are you my wife? My girlfriend?" she teased, chuckling.

"Have you heard of the word 'friend'?" I shot back.

"You and your friendzone," she taunted, but her fingers absentmindedly traced patterns on the table, as if writing something only she could read.

I asked, "What's wrong? As a friend, I want to help. Your life will be set, you can become a great painter. Do you know? She'll display your painting in her biggest gallery."

She asked, "As a friend?" (She paused.) "...But what's the difference?"

"You wanted to become big, right?"

"Just like you wanted to be a beggar? Everyone wants to be rich, but.." she stopped mid-sentence, her fingers tightening around her brush. The softness in her voice fought against the words she wanted to say but swallowed back.

I answered quickly, "Who are you losing? Everything is coming to you, you're thinking too much."

She chuckled, but it wasn't real. Her smile barely lifted before falling again. Her hand hovered near the canvas, but she wasn't painting just holding the brush, frozen. The way her fingers gripped it tighter every second told me something was off. She was mysterious, but not in the loud way. It was the quiet puzzling, Her shoulder is expression, where someone gives up too easily.

Then, after a few minutes of nothing just silence and small gestures, like the hesitant tapping of her fingers against her knee she took a deep breath and forced a smile, as if convincing herself everything was okay.

She pulled a sketch from her side pocket and handed it to me. "Finish this! The one you left incomplete your peace, your everything. A broken hand cannot heal another broken thing."

"I didn't do this, it's childhood stuff." I laughed, fake and dry.

"It's my paper, I know. Don't lie. You did well, now make it better."

I felt so happy that she liked it, almost crying, but my face was like stone. My lips wanted to stretch into a wide smile, but instead, I chose to say:

"How should I do it? I don't know."

"Then why am I here?"

"Why will you do it? Who are you?" I teased.

"You use my lines for me, it feels good, but complete it." Shraddha held my tight wrist, her grip firm but uncertain. She looked into my eyes, her fingers twitching slightly as if she wanted to hold on longer but thought better of it. "Bring back what is lost in you. A broken person cannot save anyone."

It felt like she had overheard something.

"So, you listened to our conversation!" I snapped. "What kind of person are you?"

"You're forgetting, everything can be heard here. The walls of your house are like this." She explained, her voice calm.

"Then you should have blocked your ears." I folded my arms.

"I have no interest in this." She stood up and turned back to her painting. Her brush moved, but there was no real focus, just habitual strokes. Her shoulders looked tense, as if carrying something heavy she wasn't ready to talk about.

My mind was messing with me. I always tried to understand her. Unsuccessful every time.

We were fighting again. I didn't know what was going on with us. We just kept fighting, but somehow, Shraddha was always ready to help me. She hated yet she helped me every time. She had been helping me since day one. I didn't understand this girl. When she fought with me, it was like she wanted to kill me.

But when she wasn't speaking when her hands told a different story I wondered if she was hiding something even from herself.