Chapter 7: The Lines We Cross

Ren woke to the insistent buzz of his phone, its screen casting a harsh glow in the dim light of his room. He groaned, squinting as he reached for it. Another text from Maya.

"So you're just ignoring me now? After everything?"

Her words were sharp, accusatory, each one a needle pricking at his conscience. He stared at the message, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He wanted to respond, to explain, but what could he say? That he didn't know what he was doing? That he was just as lost as she was angry?

Instead, he locked his phone and tossed it aside, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His gaze drifted to Tulip's last message, still glowing on his screen from the night before.

Still thinking about that line. What do you think it means now?

He didn't know. He didn't know what any of it meant—not the painting, not Tulip, not the way his chest tightened every time she smiled at him. All he knew was that he couldn't stop thinking about her.

Over the next few days, Ren and Tulip's conversations grew more frequent, more personal. She teased him about his "brooding artist" vibe, and he found himself laughing more than he had in months. There was something about her—something magnetic, unpredictable—that pulled him in, even when he tried to resist.

One night, as they texted back and forth, Tulip suggested they meet again.

There's this art gallery downtown. They're showcasing some experimental work. You in?

Ren hesitated. He wasn't the type to agree to spontaneous plans, especially not ones that involved crowded spaces and abstract art. But something about the way she asked—playful yet earnest—made it impossible to say no.

Fine. When?

"This Wednesday near Joshi Gali," she replied.

Ren felt a flicker of awkwardness but typed back, "Okay, sure. Let's meet."

The gallery was a sensory overload. Vivid colors, abstract sculptures, and installations that seemed to defy logic filled the space. Tulip was in her element, weaving through the exhibits with a childlike curiosity. Ren, on the other hand, felt out of place. He lingered behind her, his hands shoved in his pockets, trying to make sense of the chaos around him.

At one point, they stopped in front of a painting—a chaotic swirl of colors with a single, stark line cutting through the center. Tulip tilted her head, studying it.

"What do you think it means?" she asked, her voice soft.

Ren frowned, his eyes tracing the line. "I don't know. Maybe it's about... boundaries. Or crossing them."

Tulip grinned, but there was something in her eyes—a flicker of vulnerability. "Or maybe it's just a line. Sometimes, things are simpler than we make them out to be."

Ren didn't respond, but the comment lingered in his mind. Later, as they walked through the gallery, Tulip's hand brushed against his. It was brief, almost accidental, but it sent a jolt through him. He glanced at her, but she was already moving on, pointing out another exhibit.

As they left the gallery, Tulip suggested they grab dinner at a nearby food truck. Over greasy fries and milkshakes, the conversation turned serious.

"So," Tulip said, leaning back in her chair, "what's the deal with your art? Why don't you ever show it to anyone?"

Ren stiffened, his fingers tightening around his cup. "It's... complicated."

Tulip raised an eyebrow. "Everything with you is complicated. Try me."

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the table. "I guess... I'm scared of failing. Of not being good enough."

Tulip studied him, her expression unreadable. "But what if you are good enough? What if you're just too scared to see it?"

Her words hit him like a punch to the chest. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the air between them charged with something unspoken. Then Tulip looked away, laughing it off like she always did. But Ren couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted.

Later that night, Ren sat in the quiet of his room, the weight of the day pressing down on him. His phone buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts.

Maya: You're making a mistake.

He stared at the screen, his stomach twisting. Before he could respond, another notification lit up his phone.

Tulip: Still thinking about that line. What do you think it means now?

Ren didn't reply to either message. Instead, he sat in the silence, the weight of their words pressing down on him. He knew he was standing at a crossroads, but he wasn't sure which path to take.

As he glanced at the blank canvas in the corner of his room, he wondered if he should draw a line—or cross one.

"We draw lines to protect ourselves, but sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is cross them."