Whispers and Watercolours Act II – Cracks in the Mirror

By Monday, the weight of the diary entries hadn’t dulled.

If anything, they pulsed louder in Aanya’s chest.

She met Nisha behind the old storage shed during break, where the CCTV didn’t reach. Nisha had a tiny notebook in her hand, more like a detective’s log than school notes.

“She’s clever,” Nisha whispered. “Too clever to get caught by just one or two pages.”

“I know,” Aanya replied, voice low. “That’s why I want to collect more. Voice notes. Messages. Screenshots.”

Nisha nodded. “Let’s build a timeline. You start writing down every time your dad treats you differently—what changed right before? What she might’ve said.”

Aanya looked at her. “Do you think he wants to believe her?”

“I think… It’s easier to believe someone when they make you feel loved. Even if they’re lying.”

Aanya’s lips parted. That sentence sat heavy in the silence.

Later that day, in art class, Aanya sat alone at the back as usual, sketching in her corner. But her brush strokes were more like slashes now—sharp, jagged, restless.

A tree without roots.

A girl sitting on a paper boat in a cracked river.

A home melting like wax.

She didn’t notice someone behind her until a voice spoke softly.

“Aanya?”

She turned quickly.

Ms. Kaur stood behind her, a long linen scarf around her neck, paint smudged on her fingers.

“You’ve been drawing darker things lately,” she said gently, eyes scanning the sketchbook. “And skipping your usual themes—floral, symmetry, birds.”

“I’m just… experimenting,” Aanya replied, too fast.

Ms. Kaur didn’t challenge the lie. She just nodded, then sat beside her, knees creaking slightly as she folded to floor level.

“I don’t want to pry,” she said, “but sometimes the canvas speaks when we can’t.”

Aanya stared at her hands.

“I’m fine,” she muttered. “Really.”

Ms. Kaur tilted her head. “You know, when I was younger, I used to draw cities breaking apart. Cracks in walls, collapsed bridges. I thought I was just being edgy. But I was drawing my family, in code.”

A pause.

She slid a tiny notepad across the table.

“If you ever need to talk—or just sketch out the truth, I’ll be here.”

Aanya blinked. Her eyes stung, but she nodded.

And said nothing.

That evening, she opened her messages from Nisha.

Aanya: She deleted her call logs before Dad got home. I think she’s hiding more.

Nisha: Try voice recording next time. Or check deleted texts. There are apps.

Aanya: Found one. I’ll test it tomorrow.

Nisha: Be careful. She’s smart.

Aanya: I’m learning to be smarter.

Aanya stared at the art teacher’s notepad lying in her drawer.

She opened it and wrote one sentence in pencil:

When the truth is hidden behind smiles, even silence needs a witness.