"Hey! Let us help you out," I called, walking up to her. She turned her head, clearly startled—and that's when I realized. Shruti. I knew her. Kind of. We'd never talked much. Just the usual school familiarity; shared walls, nothing more. As for Aksh, I was sure she didn't even know his name.
"Shruti! Give that to me," he said like they'd been childhood friends. I blinked. Since when did he know her name?
I shot him a glance, stunned. Did he know her? Or had he somehow managed to befriend her too? His social reach was growing faster than a virus, while I'd been here ten years and still kept my circles small.
"No… I'll do it," she mumbled, almost too softly to hear.
"Nonsense," Aksh beamed. "It's our pleasure. You focus on the display—we're your official escorts today." Dramatic as always.
Shruti looked confused, maybe even concerned about this surprise assistance falling from the sky, but she didn't argue again. I picked up a sketch pad and the scattered poster colors. Aksh took the canvases wrapped up in cloth like it was his mission.
Around us, the corridor buzzed with other students hauling their exhibits—bags on their backs, models in their arms. It was going to be a long event. As we walked toward the exhibition area, Shruti stayed utterly silent. I chatted with Aksh— asked him how he knew her, to which he just said, "I've stalked her insta page". Yeah of course.
We cracked jokes, made some comments, pointing out weird project ideas along the way—but she stayed quiet, eyes mostly on the floor.
"Shruti! What are you displaying today?" Aksh finally asked, from behind the canvases he was holding in his arms. There was genuine curiosity slipping into his voice.
"Umm… portraits," she said quietly. "Of our school's teachers."
"That's so cool," I said, trying to sound impressed. I really was intrigued. Maybe she'd open up if I showed some genuine interest. But still, barely a reaction. Just a faint flicker in her tone, "Thanks" she just said, like each word had to be carefully weighed before it left her mouth.
I glanced at her again—small frame, sketchbook clutched tight to her chest, ponytail swinging gently as she walked. Her sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and I noticed faint splashes of red and blue on her wrist. Watercolor stains. She looked like someone who had worked the entire night.
"Who were the lucky teachers?" Aksh asked, always the talker. "Hope you made one for Principal Ma'am—she's really into that kind of stuff."
I raised an eyebrow. How would he know that? But then again, this was him. Half of the things he said sounded like guesses, and the other half somehow turned out to be right. I didn't even bother asking anymore.
"I've made three," Shruti said, voice still soft but steady. "Rekha Ma'am, Nitin Sir, and yes… one for the Principal. I could get higher marks from it."
The way she said it made it sound less like ambition and more like survival. Like someone turning in extra homework because they didn't trust the system. But maybe she just wanted to win. We were descending the stairs now. Gotta be more careful.
"Nice," Aksh smiled. "I'm pretty sure you're going to win something today."
He meant it. You could tell by his voice. Maybe he picked up on her low confidence—or maybe he just handed out encouragement like chocolates. Either way, I was quietly glad he was around. He could handle the talking; I could sit back and enjoy the show.
We finally reached the ground floor and joined the stream of students carrying their worlds of craft. Sure enough,The quadrangle no longer looked like part of the school. Easels lined the sides like pillars, flower vases decorated the edges, and a few tables shimmered with embroidery and potted plants, for the aesthetic I guessed. A tent cloth covered the head with frills draping from it.
At the center stood a long table for the judges, their nameplates gleaming and letters in gold. Teachers paced around, guiding students to their assigned corners like air-traffic controllers. It looked more serious than I expected—like a mini art museum inside our school walls. And I even got to see Kanishka Didi. My Goddess.
"Where should we keep this?" I asked Shruti.
"I... don't know. Let me ask."
She walked away stiffly, holding a folded paper in one hand like a passport to safety. Her hands didn't move much when she walked. Almost mechanical. Her fingers trembled as she asked the teacher who was assigning the stations.
Aksh and I exchanged a glance. We could tell. She was definitely shaken up from inside.
Returning quickly. "That one," she said, pointing to an easel in the far corner. And as she was turning around…
"What's the format of this thing?" Aksh suddenly asked. His curiosity wasn't unusual, but there was something intentional in his tone—like he was fishing.
"Um… First we display our pre-made work. Then we complete another piece here, in front of the jury. And at the end… we have to describe it. Our technique, color choices, all that."
Her voice started to dwindle off at the end. That was when I realized. That's what's bothering her. Not the painting. The explanation.
"Oh, have you prepared your speech then?" I asked, following Aksh's lead.
Before she could answer, one of the teachers motioned us to hurry up. We began making our way through the venue, passing other students as they set up. Some had sculptures, others had watercolors, and a few even had paper quilling or origami art.
We worked in sync—Aksh settling the canvas, me arranging the colors, Shruti laying out a newspaper like a protective shield for her tools. Silence lingered between us as she adjusted her brushes. Then, almost too softly, she murmured, "I haven't prepared anything. I don't think I'll be able to speak. They're giving ten marks just for that part… out of fifty."
Her voice cracked slightly at the end. Not just nerves anymore—fear, plain and clear. It settled on her face like a shadow. Is this why she was trying to butter up the teachers, hoping for their benevolence?
She turned away and began unwrapping her canvas, her eyes fixed on the easel, avoiding us completely. The venue had quieted down now— most students were at their stations, final touches being made. The judges would walk in any second.
"Thanks for your help. I can handle it from here," she said, her voice firmer than before, like it was meant to push us away gently.
Aksh didn't move. Instead… "If you'll allow it," he said softly, "I can do it for you."
Silence.
For a moment, even I paused. I stared at him. What made him say that? How did he leap to that idea? Shruti looked up, startled herself—searching his face like she wasn't sure if she heard him right. "You?"
And I stood there, inhaling the scent of fresh flowers for the first time that morning. Maybe because my breath had finally returned after witnessing this guy's unpredictability.
"I could tell you to just toughen up and power through," Aksh said gently, "but today doesn't feel like the day for that. You said you haven't prepared anything for the speech yet— let me take care of it. You just focus on your art. Sounds okay?"
He wasn't wrong. My coach often reminds us how growth only happens when you face the hard parts yourself—but you don't teach someone to swim when they're already drowning. You help them out first. Her fear might actually sabotage her unfinished piece. But still… Was it really his place?
How could she hand over her effort, her hours of drafting and painting, to a guy she barely knew? Someone who had just landed in this school a month ago? It was obvious how much each mark mattered to her.
"What if they deduct marks for it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Valid concern. She couldn't afford to gamble but she did consider the idea for sure.
I stepped in. "We can talk to the teachers. Say something came up, or give an excuse—worth a shot, right?"
She looked at both of us— hesitated, her grip tightening around the edge of her sketchbook and then nodded. "Let's try." It came quickly. Folding like a piece of paper. But there sure was a sort of relief in her eyes now.
Maybe her fear was deeper than I'd realized. Maybe it wasn't just stage fright.