Her eyebrow lifts. “A game?”
“Yes.”
She flips it open. “This seems like the least entertaining game ever invented.”
“Wait for the rules.” She leans back against the edge of the table.
“Go on then.”
I slide a pen toward her. “Simple rule. You write a sentence about me. I write a sentence about you.”
She stares at me. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She thinks about it for a second. Then slowly smiles. “Oh this is dangerous.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Oh it absolutely is.”
She takes the pen and sits down, bending over the notebook with exaggerated seriousness. “You’re not allowed to read mine,” she warns.
“I won’t.” I raise my hands in mock surrender.
She writes something quickly, then flips the notebook closed and slides it toward me. “Your turn.”
I open it. Her handwriting is neat but slightly slanted.
You pretend to be calm but you’re actually very annoying.
I laugh out loud. She beams proudly. “That was kind.”
“Very.”
I take the pen and write beneath it. Then push the notebook back to her. She reads my line.
You act like you have everything under control even when you’re clearly exhausted.
Her smile fades a little. Not in a bad way. Just softer.
“That was rude.”
“It was very accurate actually.”
"I don't do that anymore." She whispers, "at least I try."
I smile softly, "good, keep trying because I am always here, Divya. No matter what."
She flips the notebook back to me. “Again.”
We keep going. Her next line:
You cook suspiciously well.
Mine:
You pretend you’re bad at things so people won’t expect help from you.
