“You did hold it together,” he said, frowning like he wanted to fix something and couldn’t find the right tool. “That’s what matters.”
“Is it?” Jules asked, voice cracking like glass under pressure. “Because I’m starting to wonder if holding it together is just me pretending I’m okay until I forget how to be anything else.”
Keaton stood slowly, shifting like he couldn’t decide if he should give them space or stay close. “You’re not alone, Jules. You know that, right?”
They didn’t answer. Their eyes drifted to the mess of the room—paint-splattered tables, crooked collages, caps from dried-out markers rolling across the floor. All these tiny pieces of everyone else’s imaginations.
And nothing left of their own.
Keaton hovered for a moment longer, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “There’s a gallery owner in Afton who wants to talk to you,” he said. “We did some work for him, so he reached out to me, asking if I knew how to get in touch with you. I forwarded the email this morning. They saw the progress on your mural and love your vision. They want to meet.”
Jules froze. The cup in their hand tilted slightly, then slowly lowered to the table.
“Oh.” The word came out flat. Tight. “That’s…exciting.”
At what point would Jules be crushed under the weight of expectations?
Keaton still didn’t move. “I thought it might help. Knowing people see what you’re doing. There are so many people out there who believe in you and want you to succeed. You’re too good to keep your art in totes in the storage room.”
And maybe that was what made it worse.
Because right now, Jules didn’t feel seen. Not really. Not for the parts of themselves that were quietly splintering beneath the surface.
They wanted to scream that the mural wasn’t done. That they weren’t done. That the version of them people liked—the bright, energetic, whimsical artist—wasn’t the whole truth. That they were starting to feel like they didn’t have anything left to give.
But instead, they just sat there and nodded. Because it was easier than opening up. Easier than falling apart.
Keaton took a step back. “I’ll start breaking down the tables,” he said. No pressure. Just a statement. Just something to do while he waited to see if they’d come back to themselves.
Jules didn’t try to stop him.
They just stared at the smudge of blue on their hand and wondered how long it would take to feel like themselves again—and whether anyone would notice if they didn’t.
FIFTEEN
Jules pressed their forehead to the cool passenger window, watching the world slip by in streaks of early summer color—lawns greening, gardens blooming in wide, messy bursts. The truck’s engine hummed beneath them, a steady vibration that should have been soothing, but only made their legs jitter with restlessness. They pulled their sleeve down over their knuckles, thumb worrying at a loose thread, trying to anchor themselves to something small and manageable.
Keaton was silent beside them, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. He drove the way he did everything—deliberate, unhurried, as if he believed going slow enough might keep the whole world from falling apart. Jules glanced at him from the corner of their eye, tracking the muscle that flexed in his jaw every time he shifted gears, the faint crease between his brows that meant he was thinking too hard.
The radio played low—some indie folk singer crooning about coming home, the kind of background noise that usually made Jules feel safe. Today, it sounded like a dare.Are you really home?Or are you just pretending?
They wrapped their hands tighter around the plastic cup in their lap, feeling the chill from the melted ice sweat against their palms. The scent of lavender and chai turned their stomach despite it being one of their favorite drinks. When had comfort started feeling like pressure?
Shouldn’t you be happy?
Shouldn’t you be grateful?
The thought looped in their mind, sharp as a pebble in their shoe. This—commissions, a mural, people actually knowing their name at the market—was what they’d wanted, wasn’t it? They remembered promising themselves, months ago, that if anyone ever noticed, they’d rise to the occasion. Smile, say thank you, make it look easy.
But now, every time someone stopped them—You’re the mural artist, right?—Jules felt their chest go tight, like a rope cinching a little closer each time. They’d smile, say, “Yeah, that’s me,” and then spend the rest of the day wishing they could crawl back into the anonymous mess of their old bedroom, where nobody expected anything except maybe a few dirty coffee mugs and half-finished sketches.
Keaton glanced over, just once, the way he did when he was trying not to intrude but couldn’t help himself. Jules stared hard at the window, tracking their reflection in the glass. They wanted to say something, anything to break the tension—some joke about the world’s most awkward silent car ride, or how they’d kill for one day without a to-do list—but the words stuck. All they could manage was another half-swallow of chai, lukewarm and unsatisfying.
God, you begged for this, didn’t you? All those years wishing someone would notice. Now they have, and you’re terrified. Typical.
Their mouth twisted, almost a smile. Keaton’s belief in them was…heavy. They wanted to live up to it, to everything he saw when he looked at them.
A flash of the bakery mural outside—the bold colors, the way people lingered to watch whenever they worked on it—caught Jules’s attention as they passed. It should have filled them with pride. Instead, it felt like a spotlight, bright and hot, making them want to shrink smaller, blend into the seat.
