Page 22 of The Valentine Agenda

Around her, twenty-three third-graders were deep in concentration, their art projects spread across pushed-together desks.

The idea had come to her at three AM, unable to sleep, staring at her ceiling, feeling alone with her emotions: her students would create art about their elderly neighbors and relatives—about Mrs. Peterson's arthritic hands that still remembered ballet positions, about Mr. Thompson when he shared stories from his youth, about Mrs. Chen's quiet wisdom passed down through tea ceremonies.

The children would share these pieces at an art show for the community, building bridges between generations through paint and understanding.

Connection through understanding. Empathy through art.

"Ms. Miller?" Sarah raised her hand. "Can I add glitter to show how Mrs Peterson's eyes sparkle when she tells stories about dancing?"

"That's beautiful, Sarah." Hannah's voice caught slightly. She covered it by reaching for the art supplies. "Here, try this special paper—it has a shimmer without being too obvious."

Obvious like someone trying too hard to belong in a world that wasn't hers.

Hannah pushed the thought away, focusing on Sarah's delighted expression as the paper caught the light. This was real. This mattered. Not Instagram posts or revenge plots or—

"Ms. Miller?" Tommy's voice pulled her back. "I don't know how to draw loneliness."

Hannah knelt beside his desk, her heart squeezing at his frustrated frown. "Well, what makes your grandfather feel lonely?"

"He misses Grandma. And sometimes..." Tommy chewed his lip. "Sometimes people forget to visit him. Or they're too busy."

Like being too busy to text that you're not coming back.

"What if," Hannah forced her voice to stay steady, "we think about empty spaces? See how this artist used white space to show absence?" She pulled up an example on her tablet. "Sometimes what's missing can say more than what's there."

The children gathered around, fascinated by the concept. Hannah let their enthusiasm wash over her, their innocent insights healing something raw inside her. They saw the world with such clarity—pain was meant to be expressed, loneliness acknowledged, feelings honored.

"Can we really show these at your building?” Lily asked, carefully adding another heart to her grandmother's portrait. "What if your friends don't like them?"

"They'll love them," Hannah assured her, thinking of Mrs. Chen's knowing eyes, Mr. Thompson's gentle humor. The real people who actually saw her, who had tried to warn her. "Sometimes just knowing someone took the time to understand how you feel... that's the greatest gift you can give."

"Like when my mom keeps my drawings on the fridge?" Tommy asked.

"Exactly like that." Hannah smiled, and if it was a bit brittle, her students were too absorbed in their work to notice. "It shows someone cares enough to really see you."

The light caught on paint-stained fingers and earnest faces. Hannah moved between the desks, offering encouragement here, a gentle suggestion there. This was who she was—not the imposter in the new dress pretending to belong at Nero's, but Ms. Miller who helped children understand complex emotions through art.

"What about you, Ms. Miller?" Sarah asked suddenly. "Do you have someone who makes you feel feelings?"

Hannah's hand stilled on the paper she was distributing. For a moment, the memory of watching James Park walk away from her, from their date, threatened to overwhelm her.

"I have all of you," she said finally.

The children nodded, returning to their work with renewed purpose. Hannah watched them, these innocent souls who understood instinctively what some adults never learned: that real connections couldn't be staged for social media, that true worth wasn't measured in designer labels or restaurant reservations.

The morning passed in a blur of paint and compassion. Hannah lost herself in it, in this simple, honest world where feelings were meant to be expressed, not hidden behind perfect suits and calculated smiles.

If her own heart felt like one of Tommy's empty spaces, well... maybe she could fill it with something beautiful too.

Just not today.

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The elevator doors opened, and there he was. James Park, breathtakingly beautiful in his tailored suit and perfect hair, looking exactly like the man she'd spent months dreaming about. Now she saw him differently—all surface, no depth, like an advertisement in a glossy magazine. Pretty to look at, but ultimately paper-thin.

He was standing by the mailboxes, for once not staring at his phone. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second beforeshe deliberately looked through him, past him, like he was just another piece of the lobby's expensive decor. Strange, how something could lose its shine once you saw what it really was.

"Hannah—"

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