TULIPS
Sunlight slipped through the window in soft streaks, falling across the floor where pieces of cardboard, scissors, tape, and random bits of cloth were scattered like we were running a low-budget construction site.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, holding a half-cut box in my hands, staring at it like it had personally complicated my life.
“This is not how houses are built,” I muttered, adjusting the flap for the third time.
Beside me, she was fully invested..no, overinvested...in the project, carefully folding a piece of cloth like she was decorating a luxury apartment.
“It’s not a real house,” she said, not even looking at me. “It’s Sinclair’s house.”
I grabbed the tape and stuck one side of the box firmly, pressing it down with more force than required.
“Hold this,” I said, handing her the other side.
She leaned closer, her shoulder brushing mine as she held the cardboard in place.
“Careful,” she muttered. “Don’t ruin it.”
“I’m the only reason this thing is standing,” I shot back.
“Delusion,” she replied instantly.
I scoffed but continued working, cutting out a small square on one side.
“There,” I said. “Door.”
She leaned in, inspecting it seriously like an architect.
“…It’s crooked.”
“It’s artistic,” I corrected.
She rolled her eyes and reached for another piece of cardboard.
“We need a roof.”
“We already have a roof,” I said, pointing at the top.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “A proper one. Slanted. For rain.”
I blinked at her.
“…It’s going to stay inside the house.”
“Still,” she insisted.
I stared at her for a second.
Then sighed.
“Fine.”
We worked in silence for a while after that...
Well… not complete silence.
Her occasional comments.
My occasional complaints.
The sound of tape tearing.
Scissors cutting.
At one point, she shifted closer without even realizing it, her arm brushing mine again as she adjusted the cloth inside the box.
“Make it soft,” she said. “She should be comfortable.”
I glanced at her.
“You’re doing all this for a cat you met yesterday.”
She shrugged lightly.
“She’s small.”
I looked back at the box… then adjusted the cloth a little more carefully than before.
“We are not painting it?” She asked.
“I don’t want to waste my time painting this kitten house.”
She clicked her tongue in irritation, crossing her arms like I had deeply offended her artistic soul.
“Make it colourful,” she whined.
“I don’t have paint,” I said, looking straight at her, hoping logic would save me.
“You have,” she replied instantly.
Before I could even react, she got up and disappeared into the room.
I frowned.
She came back the next second.
With my painting box.
And two brushes.
I stared at it.
Then at her.
Then back at it.
“…When did you even find that?” I asked, genuinely impressed.
She ignored the question completely.
“Let’s paint,” she said, doing a small happy dance before plopping down on the floor like an excited kid.
I let out a long sigh, rubbing my face.
“This is how I lose my peace,” I muttered, sitting down opposite her anyway.
She opened the box, eyes lighting up like she had just discovered treasure.
“Ooo… you even have colors properly arranged,” she said.
“Because I use them properly,” I replied.
“Not anymore,” she said sweetly.
I narrowed my eyes.
She dipped the brush into paint without a second thought and started smearing color on the cardboard wall.
“No no no—wait—” I leaned forward. “At least plan it—”
Too late.
A bright, uneven streak of blue spread across the box.
She looked at it.
Then at me.
“…It’s abstract.”
I stared at the disaster.
“…It’s a crime.”
She gasped. “Rude.”
I shook my head and picked up the other brush.
“Move,” I said, taking over one side.
“Oh wow, Mr. Professional joined,” she teased.
“Someone has to save this,” I muttered.
And just like that, we started painting the small box.
I focused on my side, carefully brushing a few pink tulips along the edges—soft strokes, neat, controlled… something that actually made sense.
On the other hand—
She was chaos.
I glanced up when she stretched over the top of the box, tongue slightly peeking out in concentration as she wrote something in bright yellow.
“Little Sinclair’s Palace,” she read out proudly, lifting the brush like she had just completed a masterpiece.
I let out a small chuckle, shaking my head as I looked back at my work.
“Palace, huh?”
“Of course,” she said, offended at my tone. “She deserves luxury.”
“She was living on the street yesterday.”
“And today she has a palace,” she shot back instantly.
I smiled faintly despite myself, adding the last stroke to one of the tulips.
For a moment, there was nothing but the quiet sound of brushes against cardboard…
Then she leaned in, took my hand, and placed it on her lap as she started painting on it.
“What are you doing?” I snapped, immediately trying to pull my hand back.
She clicked her tongue. “I am doing art.”
I withdrew my hand quickly again.
She dragged it right back. “You are a trash can so I am using my talent to make you look like art,” she said, grinning as she started painting something similar to the tulips I had drawn on the cardboard.
“I am not a trash can,” I muttered under my breath as she dipped the brush into a mixture of white and pink.
“Yeah, you are not a trash can… but my canvas,” she said, already starting to paint tulips.
“CEO painting tulips on the hand of an employee,” I said flatly.
She chuckled softly. “Oh yeah.”
“You shouldn’t wash this, okay?” she said, still adding tiny details with complete focus.
“I will definitely wash this,” I replied immediately.
“You won’t,” she said simply.
My breath hitched for no reason I wanted to analyse.
I looked away for a second, then back at her.
There were small creases of paint on her cheek, her fingers completely stained with colours, and a few loose strands of hair falling into her eyes every time she leaned in too close to her “masterpiece.”
She didn’t even bother pushing them back.
Just continued painting like the world could wait.
I stared for a moment too long.
I was not supposed to be with her like this.
Not supposed to be sitting on the floor with paint on my hands.
Not supposed to be watching her concentrate like the world had narrowed down to a brush and my skin.
Not supposed to be talking to her so normally… so casually… as if I wasn’t dragged into this marriage in the first place.
I glanced at my hand again. The tulips were still there—messy, soft, a little uneven. Like they had been drawn without thinking too much… just feeling.
She leaned back slightly, studying her work like it mattered more than it should.
And somehow, the irritation I was supposed to feel… didn’t sit properly anymore.
She chuckled at her art on my hand, then looked at me.
“Mr. Justice saviour turned into Mr. Pookie,” she said, grinning from ear to ear.
I bit the inside of my cheek to stop the smile that was dangerously close to showing.
She stood up suddenly, walked over, and scooped up Little Sinclair into her hands.
Then she started dancing dramatically with the kitten like she was announcing royalty.
I let out a quiet laugh before I could stop myself.
“Welcome to your palace, Sinclair!” she shouted.
The kitten barely reacted.
She gasped. “Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”
Then she turned sharply toward me.
“Take your phone and record this, Mr. Pookie. Little Sinclair entering her palace,” she ordered.
I sighed, carefully lifting my phone, holding my hand awkwardly so I wouldn’t smudge the tulips on my hands.
“I am not Mr. Pookie,” I muttered.
She didn’t even look at me. “Camera rolling?”
“…Yes ma'am”
“Good. History is happening.”
She slowly placed Sinclair inside the box, beaming.
“Yeah, first day in your palace built by your parents,” she announced happily.
“I am not her parent,” I said immediately.
She ignored me completely.
Then she leaned closer to the kitten and asked softly, “He’s annoying, right?”
Sinclair sniffed the corners of the box, completely unbothered by the conversation.
She walked back to me and casually took the phone from my hand.
“See, this is my nurse husband who I would probably divorce very soon, and this is our little Sinclair and the palace me and Mr. Pookie built for her,” she said loudly into the camera, turning it between me, the box, and the kitten.
I stared at her. “Nurse husband?”
She didn’t even blink.
“And this is my art,” she added, bending down and showing my painted hand to the camera like it was a museum exhibit.
“For whom are you recording these?” I asked, squinting at her.
She straightened up instantly. “For my future self. And after divorce, you can look at this video and weep while missing me,” she said dramatically.
“Get out of your delusions. I am never going to miss you,” I said confidently.
She immediately positioned the camera back at me. “Say now.”
I sighed. “I will never miss this menace after divorce,” I said clearly, like it was a formal statement.
She nodded like she was recording evidence for court. “Look at this video after divorce… you will laugh at yourself,” she said confidently.
I scoffed.
I won’t miss her.
…I won’t, right?