Today was a blur.
Lectures. Practicals. More lectures.
By the time I stepped into the art studio, my brain felt like melted wax—soft, useless, and seconds away from collapsing completely. But the moment I pushed open the heavy wooden doors, something in me settled.
The studio always did that.
The scent of paint and turpentine clung to the air, thick but oddly comforting. Canvases leaned against the walls in careless stacks, some half-finished, others abandoned like forgotten thoughts. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, catching dust particles midair and turning them into something almost magical.
This… this was my space.
I exhaled slowly and dropped onto my stool, staring at the piece in front of me.
My latest project.
I’d spent weeks on it—late nights, missed meals, paint-stained fingers—and now it was finally done. Well… almost. I tilted my head, squinting at it like it might confess its flaws if I looked hard enough.
“Hey, smallie.”
I didn’t even need to turn around.
“What? Who are you calling smallie, shorty?” I shot back, a grin tugging at my lips as I finally glanced over my shoulder.
Abigail stood there, looking way too pleased with herself.
She clutched her chest dramatically. “Ahh, that hurts.”
“Then don’t call me that. Ever. I’m serious,” I said, straightening with mock authority.
She pouted. “But that name fits you.”
“Really? I’m taller than you. Like, literally.” I raised a brow, folding my arms.
“That’s what you think.” She giggled, clearly unconvinced.
I rolled my eyes, but the smile stayed.
Abi plopped down beside me like she owned the place, swinging her leg lazily. “So, what’s up with you?”
“Nothing much. Just finished one of my long-term projects.” I gestured toward the canvas, trying—and failing—not to sound proud. “Want to take a look?”
She immediately leaned away like I’d just offered her poison. “Not at all. I can’t survive another one of your speeches about how *amazingly talented* you are.”
I gasped, placing a hand over my heart. “Seriously? That’s what you think of me?”
“Hey, don’t pretend,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I know you’re secretly enjoying your enormous ego.”
“That’s rude,” I muttered, though I was already smiling. “And for the record, I *am* great at art. There’s no denying facts.”
“Here we go again…” she groaned, pushing herself up from the stool.
I watched her, suspicious. That tone never meant anything good.
“Just so you know,” she added, dusting off her hands, “you’re buying lunch yourself today.”
My head snapped up. “Wait—what?”
Before she could take another step, I grabbed her wrist. “Hey, sis. Don’t be like that. I was joking. I won’t do it again, I promise. No—wait—I pinky swear.”
Even I could hear how fake I sounded.
Abi looked down at me, completely unimpressed.
“It’s not going to work this time,” she said flatly. “I’ve seen this trick way too many times, and honestly? It’s getting boring.”
Ouch.
“Come on,” I pressed, desperation creeping in. “Don’t do this to me. I promise—I’ll… I’ll do anything.”
The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them.
Her eyes narrowed slowly, dangerously.
“Anything?” she repeated.
Yeah. I was doomed.
“Y-Yes… anything,” I said, even though my stomach had already dropped.
She tapped her chin like she was deep in thought, then snapped her fingers.
“Great. You’re doing my assignments for a week.”
“What?! Abi, that’s—”
“No buts.” She grinned, clearly proud of herself. “You made a promise. Now you have to keep it.”
I stared at her, completely betrayed.
The lecturers had been ruthless lately—back-to-back assignments, tight deadlines, zero mercy. And somehow, she’d just tricked me into doubling my workload.
Unbelievable.
“Fine,” I sighed dramatically. “I’ll do it… but you’re buying me dinner too. I don’t work for free.”
Her face lit up instantly. “That’s my baby boy.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Too late.
She grabbed my arm and started dragging me toward the door. “Gosh, I’m starving. Let’s go before all the good spots are taken.”
I didn’t even bother resisting anymore. I just let her pull me along, shaking my head.
Abi had always been like this—loud, dramatic, impossible to ignore.
She had this effortless kind of beauty people noticed without trying. Warm brown skin, expressive eyes that always seemed to be judging you
and usually winning
, and a smile that could either charm you… or get you into serious trouble.
And yeah—she was popular.
Not in the fake, attention-seeking way. People just… liked her. She had that energy. The kind that filled a room without asking permission.
We’d met in our first year after she loudly criticized my sketch in front of half the class.
I’d argued back.
She’d argued harder.
And somehow… we never stopped talking after that.
Now?
She was my best friend.
My biggest problem.
And, unfortunately, my favorite person.
If only I knew that walking out of that studio with her…
…was the last normal moment I’d have for a long time.