The days leading up to the showcase felt strangely suspended, like the world was holding its breath with her. Nothing dramatic happened — no sudden bursts of confidence, no sweeping waves of doubt. Just a steady hum beneath her ribs, a reminder that something important was coming.
She kept her routine.
School. Walks. Swimming. Sketching beneath the gum tree.
But everything felt slightly different now, as if her life had tilted a few degrees toward a new direction. She wasn’t just drawing anymore. She was preparing to let her drawings be seen.
That was its own kind of bravery.
One afternoon, she sat beneath the gum tree with her sketchbook open, not to draw, but to think. The leaves rustled overhead, casting shifting shadows across the page. She traced the outline of her resilience piece — the one she had submitted — with her fingertip.
She wondered how it would look on display. She wondered if anyone would stop to look at it. She wondered if they would understand what it meant.
But she didn’t need them to.
She realised that the act of sharing it was already enough. She had stepped out of her quiet world and placed a piece of herself into the open. That alone was a victory.
Still, she wanted to be ready.
So she practiced talking about her art — not out loud, but in her mind. She thought about how she might describe her process if someone asked. She thought about how she might explain the feeling behind the piece. She thought about how she would stand beside her work without shrinking.
She wasn’t used to imagining herself in spaces where she was visible. But she was learning.
At home, she spent evenings refining her skills. She experimented with charcoal, letting the dark strokes bleed into softer shades. She tried blending techniques she’d seen in videos. She sketched her own reflection, capturing the curve of her cheek, the quiet determination in her eyes.
She wasn’t preparing for the showcase itself.
She was preparing for the version of herself who would walk into that room.
The night before the event, she laid out her clothes — simple, comfortable, nothing flashy. She placed her sketchbook in her bag, not because she needed it, but because it felt like carrying a piece of home.
She stood in front of the mirror for a long moment.
She didn’t look different. But she felt different.
Her shoulders sat a little straighter. Her gaze held a little steadier. Her breath moved a little deeper.
She whispered to herself, barely audible:
You’re allowed to be here.
It wasn’t a declaration. It wasn’t a battle cry. It was a permission she had never given herself before.
She turned off the light and climbed into bed, the soft hum beneath her ribs settling into something warm.
Tomorrow, she would walk into a room full of people. Tomorrow, her art would hang on a wall. Tomorrow, she would be seen.
And for the first time, she wasn’t afraid of that.
She was ready.
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and then Add to home screen.