Tanisha sat cross‑legged on the floor, her hair tied up messily, a smear of blue on her cheek and red on the other cheek. I had added the red paint on her cheek.
"You're doing that corner too dark," I said softly, crouching beside her.
She glanced at me, eyes crinkling. "It's meant to be dark. It's called depth, Nusaybah. You wouldn't understand."
I laughed and stole the brush from her hand. "Depth, my foot. Look here, blend it out here."
She allowed me to blend it more. I softened the edge using the paintbrush with a few strokes.
"Okay… yeah, that actually looks better," she admitted, nudging my shoulder with hers. I laughed.
We worked like that for a while, quiet except for the faint playlist in the background. Luckily, our music tastes were very similar.
Every so often she'd reach over and smear paint on the back of my hand. It was on purpose, I knew it. But I hid my laughter and pretended to be annoyed.
.
"You're too careful with your strokes," she said at one point, tilting her head as she studied my own canvas.
"Maybe you're too messy," I shot back, flicking a dot of white paint onto her hand.
She gasped, mock‑offended. "Oh, it's on now."
And suddenly there was paint on my sleeve, us laughing so hard we had to set the brushes down before we ruined the canvases completely.
When we finally calmed down, I sat back, leaning on my hands. She continued on her canvas and I stared at mine. It wasn't perfect, but I was satisfied.
"Thanks for staying. Feels weird painting alone sometimes," said Tanisha without looking up, as she remained focused on her canvas.
I smiled in response,"You know I wouldn't be anywhere else."
She gave a little grin, eyes still on her work. "Yeah. I know."