Chapter 2: A Brushstroke of Chaos

I turned around slowly, blinking as my mother stood at the doorway with her arms crossed and a look that screamed “enough.”

She scanned the room like she was mentally listing every reason I needed help.

“Rhea, seriously, what’s going on in here?”

I shrugged, rubbing a streak of dried paint on my arm.

“It’s art,” I said simply. “Art is messy.”

Mom stepped carefully over an open sketchbook.

“You haven’t slept, you haven’t eaten, and your phone has been switched off for two days. I was about to call the police!”

That part might’ve been a slight exaggeration, but knowing her, not by much.

“I was in the zone,” I muttered, flopping back onto my beanbag chair. “Didn’t feel like talking.”

“Didn’t feel like talking?” she repeated, her voice rising. “Rhea, this isn’t normal. You can’t keep doing this every time you get inspired. You need balance.”

I hated that word. Balance.

To me, that sounded like putting limits on the one thing that made me feel alive.

“Just give me a few more hours, okay?” I said. “I’m almost done.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she sat down at the edge of my bed, which was covered in fabric scraps, glue sticks, and pieces of broken jewelry I’d planned to use in a mixed-media piece.

She looked tired.

Older than usual.

“Your teacher called again.”

That made me sit up straighter.

“What did she say?”

“She said you missed your presentation last Friday. And your final portfolio deadline was yesterday.”

My heart dropped.

I had completely forgotten.

I had been so wrapped up in this new series—these abstract portraits exploding with color and emotion—that time had lost its meaning.

Literally.

“You said you wanted to get into that art residency,” Mom said softly. “But how are you supposed to do that if you don’t even show up?”

I rubbed my forehead. “I know. I know, I messed up. I just—I get stuck in my head. And when I’m creating, it’s like... everything else just disappears.”

She nodded, more out of tiredness than agreement.

There was a long pause.

Then, almost carefully, she added:

“Maybe it’s time we talked to someone.”

That pulled me out of my haze.

“What? Like a therapist?”

“Yes.”

I scoffed. “I’m not crazy, Mom.”

“I didn’t say you were,” she replied, standing up. “But shutting out the world for days at a time, forgetting to eat or sleep—it’s not healthy.”

“I’m just passionate.”

“You’re hurting yourself, Rhea.”

That part stung.

Because somewhere deep down, I knew she wasn’t wrong.

But I also didn’t want to admit it.

Not yet.

After she left the room, I sat in the middle of my mess, staring at my half-finished canvas.

The face on it looked like mine—but twisted. The eyes were too wide, the mouth unfinished.

It looked frantic.

Just like I felt.

Later that evening, I found myself on the rooftop.

It was my safe spot.

No one ever came up there, except the occasional pigeon or a stray cat.

From there, I could see the city lights blur like glitter in motion.

My sketchbook was open on my lap.

A pencil in my hand.

I wasn’t drawing anything specific—just lines, shadows, broken faces.

Then I heard footsteps.

I turned.

It was Neha, our upstairs neighbor.

She was wearing oversized headphones around her neck and holding a half-empty mug.

“Oh,” she said. “Didn’t know anyone else came up here.”

“Same,” I replied, scooting over to give her space.

She sat beside me.

Her presence was calm.

Easy.

After a while, she glanced at my sketchbook.

“That’s intense,” she said.

I snorted. “You’re not the first to say that.”

“But I like it,” she added. “It’s raw. Like it’s telling the truth, even if it’s kind of scary.”

That made me pause.

Not many people got it.

I looked at her sideways.

“Are you an artist too?”

She shrugged. “Sort of. I write songs. Mostly sad ones.”

I smiled. “I paint sad things. We’re a perfect match.”

She laughed.

It was soft and real.

The next day, I agreed to go with Mom to see the counselor.

Just once.

Just to prove I wasn’t “crazy.”

But the room was warm and smelled like lavender. The therapist—Ms. Anika—had kind eyes and listened like she wasn’t judging me.

“So you use art as a way to express what’s going on inside?” she asked.

“Yeah. Pretty much. It’s like... if I don’t paint, I explode.”

“And do you know what’s causing all that pressure?”

I didn’t answer.

Because honestly? I wasn’t sure.

Was it school?

The fear of failure?

The pressure to be brilliant?

Or maybe... the way I sometimes looked at girls the way my friends looked at boys, and I wasn’t sure what that meant for me.

Maybe that too.

I didn’t say that part.

Not yet.

But it was there.

A quiet truth, waiting for its own page in my sketchbook.

That night, I stayed off social media and didn’t pick up a paintbrush.

Instead, I laid on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

Mom peeked into my room.

“You okay?”

I nodded.

“Didn’t expect you to actually talk to her,” she said. “I’m proud of you.”

I gave her a small smile.

Not because everything was fine.

But because for the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel completely alone in my head.

Maybe this was what healing looked like.

Messy. Uncomfortable.

Like my room.

But also kind of... honest.

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