A week passed. Ira didn’t come back to group.
I didn’t ask about her. Not aloud. But I checked the door every time it opened.
Ava noticed, of course. “She might just need time,” she whispered after Thursday’s session, watching me pretend not to care.
“Yeah,” I muttered, eyes fixed on the floor. “Maybe.”
But that hollow space Ira left behind didn’t stay empty for long.
Because the next week, someone new walked into the circle — and cracked the air open.
Her name was Leena.
She was hard to miss. Short, dark purple hair tied back with a paint-smeared bandana. Army jacket over a crop top. Sketchbook under one arm and a look in her eyes like she’d already lived ten lives and didn’t regret a single one.
She slid into a seat like she belonged there — even if she didn’t want to.
“I’m Leena. Artist, photographer, occasional dumpster fire. Diagnosed with borderline last year. Married, technically. But it’s complicated.”
There were chuckles. A few awkward smiles.
I didn’t laugh.
I stared.
I shouldn’t have — but I did.
And then… she looked at me.
Directly.
Not just looked — saw.
It was less like eye contact and more like a dare.
I blinked first.
After group, I lingered near the hallway, pretending to scroll through my phone. Ava raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.
Leena walked past with the kind of confidence that made people turn.
She paused when she reached me. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
“I talk when it matters.”
“Huh,” she said, tilting her head. “Sounds like something someone interesting would say.”
I tried not to react. “You here for long?”
“Probably. Depends on how fast I fall apart again.” She grinned. “Or how fast I don’t.”
And just like that, she was gone — a flash of color and heat and mess, trailing the scent of cherry gum and acrylic paint.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I painted instead. Fast. Furious. Restless strokes on canvas, reds and purples bleeding into each other like something electric. Nothing like the piece I did of Ira — that one was quiet, aching.
This one screamed.
At some point, I realized I was painting Leena.
Not her face. Just the feeling of her. Like a storm with glitter in it.
I stepped back, breathless, brush still in hand.
What the hell was I doing?
A few days later, I ran into Ira at the library near my apartment.
She looked tired. Softer, somehow. Her long black coat was dusted with rain.
“Hey,” I said, startled.
“Hey.” She smiled, then paused. “You’ve been coming to group?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Still pretending it helps.”
A faint laugh escaped her. “That sounds like healing.”
We stood there, caught in the gentle awkwardness of almost-maybe-something.
Then she asked, “Met anyone new?”
I hesitated. “There’s someone. New girl. Leena.”
Her expression shifted — barely. A flicker of something unreadable behind her eyes.
“She’s… intense,” I added, watching her carefully.
“Is that what you’re into now?” Ira asked, voice light, almost teasing.
“I don’t know what I’m into,” I admitted. “I’m just… feeling again.”
She nodded slowly. “I’m glad. You deserve that.”
But she looked away as she said it.
Group was strange after that.
Leena started sitting next to me.
Sometimes she’d pass me notes — little sketches of strange faces or burning flowers. Sometimes just questions.
“What do you dream about?”
“If your art could talk, what would it scream?”
I answered her once.
Just one word, scribbled in pencil.
“Everything.”
She grinned when she read it.
“God,” she said. “You’re like a locked door I want to break open.”
And part of me?
Part of me wanted to let her.
Then came the open mic.
Again.
Ava dragged me and insisted we bring Leena too.
Ira showed up alone.
The second I saw her in the crowd, my stomach flipped.
She wore a loose green sweater, no makeup, her hair pinned back lazily. She looked like Sunday mornings and handwritten letters.
Leena arrived five minutes later — loud, laughing, twirling a pencil between her fingers like it was a cigarette.
When she saw Ira, she blinked.
Then smiled.
“Ohhh,” she said quietly. “That’s her?”
I froze.
“What?”
“The ex-something you painted like a prayer,” she teased.
I didn’t answer.
Leena looked between us. “Complicated,” she said, her voice softer now. “Very complicated.”
She didn’t sit beside me that night.
After the performances, Ira found me near the exit.
“You’ve changed,” she said, not accusing. Just noticing.
“Maybe,” I said.
“She’s… loud.”
“She’s not you.”
She nodded, slowly. “I know.”
And for a second, I wanted to say it didn’t matter.
But it did.
Because my heart was now a swinging door between two people:
One who saw through me like a mirror.
And one who saw into me like a flame.
I wasn’t sure which scared me more.
But I knew one thing:
I was already burning.
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Updated 11 Episodes
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