My name is Shruti.
I was in the college art room, carefully working on my piece for the upcoming competition. Ever since middle school, I'd been chasing this dream.
Back then, I had wandered into a local art museum with my childhood friend. That's where I first saw it—
an exhibit of contest-winning artwork.
Among all the paintings displayed, one stood out so strongly that it pulled me in like gravity. I couldn't look away. It felt like the entire world inside that frame swallowed me whole.
The artist's name was Raj, just a few years older than me. His art was the reason I joined the art club in junior college… and eventually, this art college.
As I was focusing on my current painting, my phone buzzed.
A message from the next-year class teacher:
"There's not much time until the contest. Give it your final push."
It was typed exactly how teachers talk—like she was standing behind me.
Suddenly, a cold hand touched my cheek.
I jolted in my seat, almost screaming, turning around.
It was Rahul's class teacher, smiling apologetically.
She typed on her phone and showed me:
"It looks nice, but something feels missing… an emotion you want to put in it. You can take this home and stare at it a little more. Maybe the idea will come."
I typed back a quick "Sure."
She waved goodbye and left.
I stared at my artwork again, trying to feel that missing piece… but nothing clicked.
After staring for what felt like hours, I finally gave up and walked out for fresh air.
The competition had many categories—fiction, living, dreamy, and more.
In the courtyard, students were scattered everywhere. Some were sketching, others painting. Everyone looked completely absorbed in their worlds.
I wondered…
Was Rahul-senior joining the competition too?
I took out my phone to message him, but before I could press send, I spotted him at the far end of the courtyard with two drinks in his hands.
I walked up behind him and gently tapped his shoulder.
The moment he turned, I poked his cheek.
"Hi Rahul." I signed.
"Hi. What are you doing, you?" he signed back.
Then he offered me one of the drinks.
I took a sip—
And immediately spat it out.
"What was that?!"
Before I could panic further, he gave me water and took the drink away.
When I asked what it was, he signed:
"A mixture of Slice and Coke."
I almost choked again.
"What?"
"I'm always mixing random things to make new drinks. It's fun," he signed proudly—and started mixing again.
Before he could poison both of us, I quickly excused myself and hurried back toward the art room.
On the way, I saw a classmate sketching.
He stretched out his arm toward the playground, thumb up, holding a pencil—focusing deeply.
His thumb was curved.
I remembered reading an article once:
Artists often have strongly curved fingertips—it helps with precise work.
I checked my own thumb.
It was slightly curved.
He caught me copying him and laughed.
I panicked and ran away before he got the wrong idea.
The Next Day
I was staring at my artwork again, trying to find the missing emotion.
Then—
The door creaked open.
The same classmate from yesterday stumbled in.
He placed his sheet on the dashboard and started painting silently.
We worked in quiet harmony, without disturbing each other.
After a while, my eyes hurt from staring too long.
I closed them for a moment… and suddenly—
I saw it.
The colors.
The missing emotion.
The exact feeling my artwork needed.
Maybe this was what the teacher meant—
staring until the answer revealed itself.
With fresh ideas flowing, I picked up my brush again.
Stroke after stroke, I felt happiness bloom in my chest.
I lost track of time completely.
When I finally checked my phone, my eyes widened.
I had lectures to attend.
With a reluctant sigh, I stopped for the day, left my artwork safely in the room, and headed toward class.