I just told my father I don’t need his approval.
I just turned down my inheritance.
I just committed to making it on my own in one of the most expensive cities in the country, in an industry that’s notoriously difficult to break into, with no safety net.
I should be terrified.
Instead, I feel... free.
For the first time since my shoulder injury, I’m not carrying the weight of someone else’s expectations. I don’t have to prove I’m not a failure. I don’t have to justify my choices or apologize for my interests or pretend to be grateful for conditional love.
I can just be good at what I’m good at.
I turn my phone back on.
Troy
Heard yelling. You good?
yeah. Better than I’ve been in years, actually.
Want to talk about it?
Later. Right now I need to finish my showcase portfolio.
Aight.
I set the phone aside and open my laptop again. The artist statement cursor blinks at me, waiting, but this time I know exactly what to write:
“This game is about learning that your value isn’t determined by other people’s ability to see it. It’s about finding the courage to rebuild when everything you thought defined you gets taken away. It’s about discovering that sometimes the most important victories are the ones no one else will ever understand.
It’s about being enough, exactly as you are.”
My fingers fly over the keyboard, words pouring out of me like water from a broken dam. For the first time in months, maybe years, I’m writing about my work without trying to translate it into terms my father would approve of.
I’m writing for myself.
35
PIPER
The lunch rush at Dora’s is brutal today—a steady stream of students desperate for greasy comfort food and caffeine strong enough to power through finals week. I’ve been on my feet for four hours straight, and my lower back is starting to stage a rebellion.
“Order up!” Marco calls from the kitchen, sliding another plate of questionable meatloaf toward the pickup window.
I grab it and weave between tables, dodging backpacks and laptops and the general chaos of people who’ve forgotten that personal space exists. Table six gets their meatloaf special, table four needs more coffee, and table two is still deciding between pancakes and waffles like it’s a life-altering choice.
It’s mindless work, which is exactly what I need right now. My brain keeps trying to spiral about the assignment that’s due tomorrow night—my final narrative project that will determine whether I pass the class and get the academic rehabilitation credit I desperately need.
Final Creative Writing: Write a 3,000-word story that demonstrates mastery of character development,three-act structure, and emotional resonance. Due: Friday, 11:59 PM.
The prompt has been haunting me for weeks. Every time I try to start writing, I freeze up, cursor blinking mockingly in an empty document. What story do I have to tell? What emotional resonance am I supposed to demonstrate when my own emotions feel like a tangled mess of code with syntax errors?
“Piper!” Dora herself appears at my elbow, gray hair escaping from her hairnet. “Table twelve wants to know if we can make the eggs Benedict without the hollandaise because of allergies, but with extra cheese instead.”
“So... eggs on toast with cheese?”
“Apparently that’s different from eggs Benedict.”
