The gallery hummed with the low buzz of anticipation, its air sharp with the metallic tang of rain-soaked cables and fresh paint. Outside, Mumbai’s monsoon lashed the glass doors, silhouettes of collectors and influencers flickering through the mist, their AR glasses glinting as they checked X feeds. I stood alone in the dim exhibit hall, my miniature—weeks of sleepless nights distilled into swirling blues—ready to anchor the night. Those colors held my heart, the ache I’d felt since Vikram’s critique last month, his hand resting briefly on my wrist, a quiet warmth that had stirred a longing I couldn’t shake, a wish to linger in that moment, to feel his fingers trace further. The memory faded as the AI curator’s tablet pulsed in my hands, its screen glitching—a blue stroke warping the edge of my painting, turning my monsoon’s flow into a jagged curve, hinting at a lover’s silhouette caught in rain.
I zoomed in, my breath catching. The glitch wasn’t mine—I’d prompted “monsoon passion,” not this intimate shadow that made my pulse quicken, like the way Rhea’s gaze had lingered during our last argument, her eyes sparking a curiosity I buried deep. My cousin Priya’s letter came to mind, her words about our family’s fire: “It shows up in your art, Anjali, whether you want it to or not.” Was this glitch stealing that fire, exposing me? I pictured my Malad studio, paint-splattered walls witness to my late-night doubts, the fear of fading into Mumbai’s crowded art scene. The tablet flickered again, the curve taunting me, a mirror to the parts of myself I hadn’t dared to show.
Vikram stepped closer, his shadow falling across the screen. “Anjali, they’re waiting.” His voice was soft, steady, like the hum of the gallery’s lights, and I caught the faint scent of his cedar cologne, pulling me back to that wrist-touch, a moment that had felt like a promise. I handed him the tablet, my fingers trembling. “It’s not right, Vikram. The blue stroke—it’s wrong.” Our hands brushed, a spark that warmed my skin, making me imagine, just for a second, his touch lingering longer, exploring the lines of my palm. He studied the glitch, his brow furrowing, standing close enough that I felt the heat of him. “Wrong? It’s alive. It’s your truth, Anjali—raw, unfiltered. Mumbai’s crowd will eat it up in 2025.” His words echoed a rumor he’d once shared, about a mentor’s painting hiding secrets in its code, a shadow I couldn’t unsee.
The doors opened, the crowd spilling in, their murmurs sharp as the clink of wine glasses. Influencers aimed their phones, collectors whispered about generative art’s edge. I stood frozen, the tablet heavy, my fear of fading clashing with the urge to be seen. I thought of my studio, the nights I’d painted to silence that fear, each stroke a fight to exist. The glitch was my heart laid bare—desires I hadn’t voiced, edges I couldn’t smooth. I pressed “display.” The wall flared, blues dancing, the glitched curve drawing gasps, a lover’s shadow woven into the storm. “That’s Anjali’s fire,” someone murmured, and pride surged, raw and fierce, pushing back the doubt. Vikram’s gaze met mine, steady, warm, and I wondered if he saw it too—the part of me the glitch had freed, a canvas daring me to paint what came next.
