Chapter 84 Trying something new
Chapter 84 Trying something new
The late‑afternoon sun was warm on Amelia’s face as she stepped out of the building. Her dad stood from the waiting room chair the moment he saw her, relief softening his features. He didn’t rush her or bombard her with questions — he simply opened his arms.
She walked into the hug without hesitation.
“You okay?” he murmured into her hair.
Amelia nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah. I think I am.”
He squeezed her gently, then let her go and guided her toward the car. The air outside smelled faintly of cut grass and the ocean breeze drifting in from the coast. It felt lighter than when she’d arrived.
They buckled in, and her dad waited until they were a few minutes down the road before speaking.
“So… how did it go?”
Amelia watched the scenery blur past her window — houses, trees, the familiar curve of the road home. She took a breath.
“It was good,” she said softly. “Hard. But good.”
Her dad nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I think I do.”
He smiled, just a little. “I’m listening.”
Amelia twisted the ribbon in her hair, grounding herself. “I told Dr. Hart about… everything. About the breakdown on Friday. About how Lola wouldn’t stop yelling. And how I yelled back.”
Her dad’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel, but he didn’t interrupt.
“I told her that since then, Lola’s been… quiet. Like she’s fading. Or hiding. I don’t know.” Amelia exhaled slowly. “But the silence doesn’t feel scary anymore. It feels… freeing.”
Her dad glanced at her, eyes soft. “I’ve noticed a difference in you. You seem lighter. More present.”
Amelia’s chest warmed. “Dr. Hart said the same thing.”
“She’s right,” he said gently. “You’re doing really well.”
Amelia looked down at her hands. “I’m trying.”
“That’s all anyone can ask.”
They drove in comfortable silence for a moment, the kind that didn’t feel heavy or tense. Amelia watched the sky shift toward evening, streaks of gold and pink stretching across the horizon.
“I’ve been thinking about something,” she said quietly.
Her dad hummed. “Yeah?”
She fiddled with the hem of her skirt. “The art club at school… they’re looking for people to help paint a mural at the community mental health centre.”
Her dad’s eyebrows lifted. “Really?”
“Yeah.” She swallowed. “And I… I want to help.”
He didn’t respond right away — not out of doubt, but out of careful attention. “Tell me why.”
Amelia stared out the window, watching the world pass by. “Because people who go there… people like me… they’re struggling. They’re hurting. And sometimes just seeing something beautiful can make the day feel a little less heavy.”
Her voice softened. “I want to give them that. Even if it’s just a mural. Even if it’s just a moment.”
Her dad’s eyes glistened. “Amelia… that’s incredible.”
She shrugged, cheeks warming. “I don’t know if they’ll pick me. I need to show them a portfolio.”
“And you’ll make one,” he said firmly. “And it’ll be amazing.”
Amelia smiled — small, but real. “I want to fill it with uplifting pieces. Things that feel… hopeful.”
“That sounds perfect.”
That evening, Amelia spread her sketchbooks across her bedroom floor. Some pages were dark, heavy, filled with shadows and tangled lines — echoes of the months she’d spent drowning in Lola’s voice. She didn’t throw them away. They were part of her story.
But they weren’t the story she wanted to tell now.
She opened a fresh sketchbook, the pages crisp and untouched. The blankness didn’t intimidate her the way it used to. It felt like possibility.
She sharpened her pencils, laid out her paints, and sat cross‑legged on the floor.
Her first piece was simple: a girl standing in a field of tall grass, her hair blowing in the wind, her face turned toward the sun. Not smiling — not yet — but open. Reaching.
The next was a pair of hands releasing a flock of small birds into the sky.
Then a lantern glowing in the dark.
Then a tree with roots deep and strong, branches stretching upward.
She painted late into the night, the soft scratch of pencil and the gentle swish of her brush filling the room. The silence around her didn’t feel empty. It felt like companionship. Like space she could finally breathe in.
And every time she paused, waiting for Lola’s commentary, nothing came.
Just her own thoughts.
Her own choices.
Her own voice.
The rest of the week unfolded in a quiet rhythm.
Each afternoon after school, Amelia came home, changed out of her uniform, and settled onto her bedroom floor with her art supplies. Her dad would peek in occasionally, offering snacks or just checking on her, but he never interrupted her flow.
She painted scenes of hope — soft sunrises, open windows, hands reaching toward each other. She drew people standing tall, people finding light, people moving forward even when the world felt heavy.
And with each piece, she felt something inside her strengthen.
At school, she found herself speaking more. Not loudly, not boldly — but steadily. When a teacher asked a question, she answered. When someone said hello, she said hello back. When Ryan walked beside her, she didn’t shrink into herself.
Ryan noticed.
“You’re glowing,” he said one afternoon, bumping her shoulder lightly.
“I’m not glowing,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“You are,” he insisted. “Like… in a good way.”
She laughed — a soft, surprised sound. “Maybe I’m just tired.”
“Maybe,” he said, but his smile said he didn’t believe her.
And she didn’t mind.
By Friday evening, her portfolio was nearly complete. She flipped through the pages, her heart swelling with something she hadn’t felt in a long time.
Pride.
Not because the art was perfect — it wasn’t. But because it was hers. Every line, every color, every idea came from her own voice.
A voice she was finally learning to trust.
She closed the sketchbook gently, running her fingers over the cover.
Tomorrow, she would show it to the art club.
Tomorrow, she would take another step forward.
And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t afraid of what came next.
She was ready.