There was a particular kind of morning light that filtered through their apartment window — soft, undecided, like it was still debating whether to show up fully or hit snooze and try again tomorrow. Tara sat in that light, wrapped in her blanket like a human samosa, her sketchbook resting against her knees, open to the half-finished scene from last night.
Two girls. A chipped chai cup. A sky in limbo.
She traced the outline of the cup with her pencil again. Then stopped.
Because something about it felt off.
Maybe because it wasn't just a cup. It was that cup — the one Rhea had chipped while doing dishes, halfway through a dramatic opera impersonation. Tara had laughed so hard, she'd nearly dropped a whole bowl of sabzi. The moment hadn't been recorded or shared. But it lived rent-free in her memory — crisp, ridiculous, and oddly comforting.
Now that Rhea wasn't around, the silence wasn't just an absence. It was a chorus of all the things left unsaid — and some loudly said, then quickly taken back with an awkward cough or a badly timed joke.
Tara yawned, stretched, and stood up with all the enthusiasm of a cat being asked to attend a job interview. She shuffled into the kitchen and stared blankly at the stove.
Her hand hovered near the kettle.
No.
Not today.
Today called for a reset. Not chai. Not comfort.
She opened the fridge.
The fridge, naturally, stared back with the emotional support of a hollowed-out therapy session. There was one dying tomato, a suspiciously motivational lemon, and what looked like half a packet of grated cheese trying to form its own civilization.
She closed it.
Back to chai it was.
---
As she brewed the tea — the third attempt, because the first two had somehow tasted like anxiety and floor cleaner — her phone buzzed again.
Rhea:
"Okay so… Parle-G guy thinks feminism is a toothpaste brand. Also, I may or may not have thrown a spoon at his uncle during dinner. Gently."
Tara laughed out loud. It startled a pigeon that had settled on the balcony railing.
She typed back:
"Did the spoon survive?"
A pause. Then:
Rhea:
"Emotionally? No."
---
Later that afternoon, Tara finally stepped outside.
It was a reluctant outing, like she had to gently persuade her body into clothing that wasn't pajama-adjacent. The city smelled like petrol, sweat, and the faint perfume of samosas from the corner tea stall.
She wandered into a tiny art supply store she hadn't visited in months. The owner — a man who always looked like he was in the middle of contemplating the meaning of gesso — gave her a nod of familiarity and promptly ignored her, as per tradition.
Tara wandered through the aisles, letting her fingers brush against sketchbooks, pastel sets, and fancy brushes she couldn't justify buying.
She picked up a small, square canvas. Blank. Full of possibility. Full of fear.
As she paid for it, she noticed a flyer pinned to the checkout counter:
"Community Art Wall – Submit your work. Make the city softer."
Softer.
It lingered in her mind the whole way back home.
---
By evening, the apartment was bathed in golden light. That in-between hour when everything looks like a scene from an indie film and you briefly believe you're the main character — until you trip over your own shoelace or drop your phone on your face.
Tara set up the new canvas.
She didn't sketch first.
She just… began.
Broad strokes. Gentle shades. Two figures again, but this time, mid-laughter. No chai cup. No dramatic symbolism.
Just two girls.
One possibly yelling about feminism and spoons.
The other possibly painting her way back to herself.
---
Later, when she was rinsing her brush, her phone buzzed again.
Rhea:
"Guess what. I'm bringing you something when I come back. It's not a human. It's not a puppy. It's better."
Tara:
"If it's mango pickle, I will scream."
Rhea:
"Close. It's me. I'm better than mango pickle, right?"
Tara stared at the screen, then typed slowly.
"You're more chaotic. That's for sure."
There was no reply after that.
But Tara didn't mind.
Some conversations didn't need endings.
---
Outside, the city was humming again.
Inside, the silence had shape.
Not a void.
Not anymore.
Just space.
To breathe.
To paint.
To wait.
To laugh, unexpectedly.
To belong, even in the quiet.