But there was no time for thinking about possible impending doom now. The kids were all that mattered for the next hour and a half. They clapped their hands twice to get everyone’s attention. It wasn’t easy, but they tamped down all the ick they were feeling about their personal life, forcing excitement into their voice. “Who’s ready to create today?”
“Me!” The entire room exploded into squeals of delight as everyone found their way to a workstation. Jules could do this. It wasn’t the first time they’d had to lead the group when they’d rather be anywhere else, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
By the time Jules dismissed the last of the kids and handed off the final work of smeared watercolors to a smiling parent, their entire body felt like it had been wrung out and hung up to dry. Every muscle ached, their spine pulsing with dull protest each time they bent to stack a chair. Their head throbbed in time with the cheap fluorescent lights, and even their eyes felt tired—so dry they burned every time they blinked.
It had been a good class. They knew that. Objectively. The kind of chaos adults liked to describe as “joyfully messy,” full of glitter and glue and tiny hands splattering paint in the wrong directions. Any other day, Jules might’ve laughed their waythrough it, their sleeves rolled up, encouraging creativity with glitter-streaked hands and dramatic gasps at every macaroni masterpiece.
But not today.
Today, every compliment had felt like static. Every smile had bounced right off. And now, standing in the middle of the room surrounded by half-dried paintings and the scent of washable tempera, Jules felt like a ghost in their own body.
They didn’t feel proud. Or satisfied. Or anything remotely close to okay.
They felt empty. Like they’d poured out every last drop of themselves for everyone else and had still managed to come up short.
Murray poked his head in to say good job, the usual end-of-class cheer in his voice. Jules smiled the way they were supposed to. Nodded. Gave a thumbs-up. They even managed a “Thanks, see you next month,” though it came out hoarse and thinner than they’d meant. The door closed again with a soft click.
And then they folded.
Sank into the nearest chair like the strings holding them upright had finally snapped. Their limbs felt too long, too heavy. Their hands trembled in their lap, ringed with blue, green, and purple smudges, the kind that usually felt like proof of a good day.
Today, they just felt stained.
They rubbed at their eyes, not caring that smudged paint streaked across their cheekbone. The silence was sharper now, echoing in their ears like it had teeth. The kind of silence that made you listen too closely to your own thoughts.
They should’ve canceled the class. Should’ve told Keaton this week was too much. Should’ve admitted—aloud—that Keaton pushing them to do more with their art was having the opposite of his intended effect.
But instead, they’d done what they always did. Smiled. Said yes. Pushed through.
The door creaked.
One step. Then another. The sound of boots on linoleum, careful and deliberate.
Jules didn’t look up.
They didn’t have to.
“Hey,” Keaton said, voice softer than they’d heard it in days. “I came back to help clean up.”
Jules kept their eyes on the table in front of them, where a paper flower sagged on a pipe cleaner stem. Their fingers curled tighter around themselves.
They couldn’t speak yet. If they did, their voice would crack. They were holding too much under their skin, too close to the surface.
Keaton moved closer. They felt a shift in the air, the warmth of him. He crouched beside their chair and placed a to-go cup on the table. “Figured you’d need something for your throat,” he said, like that would fix it. Like a lavender chai latte could patch over this aching hollowness inside them.
Jules wrapped their hands around the cup. It was warm.
They didn’t drink it.
“From the sounds of it, you did great today,” Keaton said, one hand braced on the back of the chair. “I wish you could hear the parents talking about how they wish you did this more than once a month.”
“I’m sure,” Jules murmured. More people who wanted to dictate what Jules did with their art. There had been a time when they would have killed to have so many people in love with what they did, but now it was one more expectation of them. “As long as I teach the way they want me to.”
Keaton paused. “Hey, no one’s trying to change you.”
That was a lie.Everyonewas trying to mold them into something they’d never be under the guise of knowing what was best for them. Jules wanted nothing more than to go home and lock themselves in their room. Calling their mom for advice wasn’t the same as being able to chat with her as they worked in the garden, but it would have to do for now.
Jules finally looked at Keaton, eyes burning with pent-up emotion. “I wish that were true,” they whispered. “There was a note on the board when I walked in withsuggestionsfor how I could make the class better. These parents don’t understand that I’m not here to turn their kids into the next Monet or Banksy. I just want them to have a creative outlet. It took all the fun out of the workshop to the point where I felt like I was barely holding it together.”
