Colors of Disturbance Chapter 3: When the Past Intrudes

The “Second Breath” exhibition was only a week away. The studio had turned into an anthill—busy, chaotic. The smell of turpentine, 3-in-1 coffee, and lo-fi music mixed with Thalia’s occasional screams whenever paint spilled.

My painting with Raven had entered the coloring phase. I used charcoal and soft pastels. His face on the canvas was no longer crooked. This time, I captured the evening light perfectly. Every time I added highlights to his dimple, my stomach fluttered on its own.

“You’ve been smiling to yourself all day,” Thalia poked my waist with a brush. “Did you fall in love with your own subject?”

I almost choked on my drink. “It’s work! This is work!”

Raven, who was mixing Prussian blue at the end of the table, just let out a small laugh. He didn’t look at me—but his ears were red.

Around noon, the studio door burst open. The scent of expensive perfume hit first.

Zara.

In my past life, Zara was the batch leader. Beautiful, rich, talented—and the number one silent bully. She never shouted. She whispered. Whispered into people’s ears about my weight, my acne, my hijab that “looked like an auntie’s curtain.” I stopped drawing portraits because of her. Because she once laughed in front of everyone, saying, “Her portraits are as ugly as she is.”

Now she stood in front of us—sleek straight hair, white dress, designer bag. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Wow, new studio,” Zara said. Her gaze scanned the room, then stopped at my canvas. She walked closer without asking. “Whose work is this? It’s nice.”

Thalia immediately stepped in front of me. Protective mode activated.

“It’s ours. The three of us.”

Zara raised an eyebrow. “Oh, a group? I thought you always worked alone… what was your name again?” She pretended to forget.

I gripped the 4B pencil tucked into my shawl. In my past life, I would’ve lowered my head. Packed my things. Gone home. Torn the drawing apart that same night.

But this was my second life.

I had already died once. What else was there to fear?

“My name,” I said, voice steady despite my trembling knees beneath my palazzo pants, “is written on the label under the canvas. You can read, right?”

Raven stopped mixing colors. He set the palette down, wiped his hands, and walked to my side. He didn’t say anything. He just stood there. At 185 cm, Zara had to tilt her head slightly to look up at him.

Zara smiled thinly. “So defensive. I was just complimenting. But…”

She leaned closer, her red-polished finger pointing at the neck area in Raven’s portrait.

“This part looks a bit… fat. Or is that because the artist is…?”

Heat rushed to my head. Before, I would’ve cried in the bathroom.

Now, I placed my pencil on the table. The tap echoed.

“That’s called anatomy,” I said. “Specifically, the sternocleidomastoid muscle. Do you want me to label it like a biology diagram too?”

Thalia burst out laughing. Raven covered his mouth, but his shoulders shook.

Zara’s face flushed. “You talk back now. You used to be so quiet.”

“People change after they’ve felt what it’s like to die, Zara,” I replied casually.

Even I was surprised I could say that.

Zara opened her bag and pulled out a flyer, tossing it onto my table.

“Charity auction next week. The college invited me as a guest curator. I’ll select five best pieces for auction. Starting price—2K each.”

She stared at my canvas for a long moment.

“I’m not promising yours will make it. My standards are high. But… if you want tips, you can come to my room tonight. Personal coaching.”

Her eyes slid to Raven.

“You can come too. We can discuss your ‘confident lines.’”

She emphasized the last phrase.

Raven and I both stiffened. She knew. She sensed something.

Zara turned, her hair swaying. Before leaving, she whispered to me,

“A long hijab doesn’t hide what’s underneath, you know.”

The door shut.

Silence.

Thalia kicked the trash bin. “Damn it! Is she threatening us? She wants to sabotage the exhibition!”

Raven picked up the flyer and crumpled it.

“She’s not touching your painting. I won’t let her.”

I sat down. My hands were cold. My fingerless gloves felt damp with sweat.

“She was my enemy in my past life. She’s the reason I… gave up.”

Raven knelt in front of me, bringing us eye to eye.

“You gave up back then. Not this time.”

He pulled out a new 4B pencil and tucked it into my shawl beside the old one.

“Two pencils. One to fight, one to create. You choose which one to use.”

Thalia hugged my shoulders from behind.

“We fight. If she sabotages us, we’ll hold an underground exhibition at a café. I’ll sell your paintings even for RM10.”

I laughed through my tears. “RM10? That’s too expensive for my work.”

“Hey!” Raven flicked my forehead lightly.

“I decide the price of your art. And it’s worth way more than Zara’s 2K.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I opened an old album on my phone—photos from my past life. There was one I secretly took: Raven at the year-end exhibition, standing in front of someone else’s painting. Alone.

He didn’t have his own piece back then. Because he hadn’t found a subject that made him want to draw.

I closed the phone. Opened a new sketchbook.

On the first page, I wrote:

For the version of me that already died. You weren’t meaningless.

The next day, we submitted our entries for the auction.

Not one.

Three.

“Evening Light” — Raven’s portrait, by me.

“Second Breath” — Thalia with smoke from the burned storage behind her, by Raven.

“Twin Pencils” — My hand with two pencils tucked into my shawl, by Thalia.

Zara received the list that same afternoon. She called Thalia.

“Is this a joke? You think this is some friendship contest?”