Love Letters From Hell

16 | hate and heart

After she got better, my father decided that he may know how to use a microwave but he still couldn't live ten hours away from his wife. I stayed because they'd sold that little house in Harrow and bought a flat in Westminster and the first thing I noticed when I'd visited was the loss of that kitchen table and how that wasn't my home anymore.

This house isn't my home either, I note, glancing around Kajal's studio. My bed gone, my posters torn down.

This is Kajal's space now and she'd fought tooth and nail for it.

Yet the rustling of Nani's feet downstairs and the green paint on Kajal's nose was still home.

I'd been relatively young when I learnt that home isn't a place. It's much smaller, about the size of a tightly clenched fist, unbound by rib cages and muscle. Home is a feeling.

When I'd moved out of this house, the argument over what my room would be had lasted three whole months, seven Whatsapp group chats, twelve migraines on Nani's part and four very heated arguments over the kitchen table.

Kajal wanted an art studio. Rika, another older cousin, wanted a playroom for her kids.

I'd lived through World War 3 with that one but after the third kitchen argument, wherein I'd stood beside the fridge, arms crossed and remarked that the backyard was big enough to kick a ball around, Kajal handled the rest easily. She'd won.

Rika still scowled every time she passed the door to the studio and it was understood that she was not welcome inside.

However, I am very much welcome inside but today I find myself having to clear my throat and peel off the doorway just to catch Kajal's attention. I step further into the room and grimace as I step on— clay?

I shoot a glare at the pottery wheel tucked in the corner, dragging my foot over some scattered newspaper on the floor.

Kajal looks up at this. She narrows her eyes at me as if I've committed a heinous crime. She's off her stool in a moment, paintbrush behind her ear as she stomps over to me and picks up the stack of papers pointedly. "I was going to use those."

"It was on the floor," I defend, holding up my hands.

She only huffs.

"I was asking you a question, by the way," I call after her, crossing my arms.

Kajal turns back around. The green paint is still on her nose.

Blinking, she wrinkles her nose then frowns. Then, she's wiping paint off her nose. She shoots me a betrayed look. "Why didn't you tell me I had paint on my nose?"

"Well, I would have," I drawl, "but you probably wouldn't have heard me. Too busy daydreaming at that easel of yours." I smirk. "Say, what colour are Nazarenko's eyes? Green, is it?" I amble toward the canvas for a peep only for Kajal to block my path.

"No. It's brown," she snaps.

I merely lift a brow.

Kajal refuses to be flustered in my presence, stepping away from me with a glare as she drops back onto her stool, shifting her painting away from my prying gaze. "Mind your own business, Aryan."