The Bandra café glowed under strings of fairy lights, the clink of chai glasses mingling with the patter of rain on the awning. I leaned against the counter, phone in hand, scrolling X, the air thick with cardamom and damp leather from rain-soaked jackets. Rhea’s remix of Anjali’s miniature was everywhere—its blues twisted into a bold curve, a glitched stroke that seemed to pulse with Anjali’s spirit, like the way her laugh had warmed me during our last meet-up, her shoulder brushing mine as we shared a sketch, a fleeting closeness that left me restless. The X threads buzzed, calling it “Anjali’s fire, stolen,” and I felt a twist of guilt for loving the drama, my fingers itching to stir it further.
I posted a quick thread: “Rhea’s remix of Anjali’s work—genius or theft? That glitched blue stroke screams her heart, but is it hers?” The words felt sharp, like the memory of a friend’s betrayal years ago, a whispered secret that had burned me, leaving me wary but curious. Anjali didn’t deserve this, her art a beacon in Mumbai’s chaos, yet here I was, fanning the flames. I pictured her in her studio, paint on her fingers, eyes fierce with that fire I admired, the kind Kaya, Rhea’s ex, had once posted about in an X thread on AI ethics, hinting at gallery secrets. My phone pinged—likes flooding in, amplifying my words, and I texted Anjali: “Your blues are trending, but Rhea’s glitch is stealing the show. You okay?”
Rhea slipped into the café, her damp hair catching the light, her presence sharp as a blade. “Meera, playing gossip queen?” Her voice teased, but her eyes held that edge, reminding me of a hackathon where she’d leaned close, her hand grazing mine, a spark that had made my heart race before I laughed it off. I showed her the thread, the glitched stroke glowing on my screen. “Just calling it like I see it. That curve—it’s Anjali’s soul, exposed. Did you mean to do that?” She smirked, sitting across from me, the table small enough that our knees nearly touched, a warmth I noticed too much. “It’s art, Meera. The glitch makes it real.” Her words danced around the truth, and I wondered if she saw what I did—the way the stroke bared Anjali’s vulnerability, her longing laid raw.
The café’s chatter swelled, phones buzzing with X notifications. I felt for Anjali, her art a piece of her heart, now twisted by Rhea’s hand. Guilt gnawed at me—I loved her fire, her fight, yet my gossip was adding fuel. I typed another message: “The glitch is you, Anjali. Don’t let Rhea dim it.” The glitched stroke stayed with me, a curve that felt like a confession, tying me to her struggle, urging me to stand by her side as the storm grew louder.
