Page 21 of High Hopes

He gives me an awkward look, scratching the back of his neck like he’s not sure what to say next. Then, “How’ve you been?” His voice is light, but there’s a certain softness to it, like he’s tiptoeing around the subject. His eyes sweep over me, probably looking for signs of the person I used to be, the girl he remembers.

She wasn’t my favorite person. Too caught up in fitting in, being agreeable, and pretending everything was fine when it wasn’t.

“I’m fine,” I say sharply.

The barely veiled sympathy is clear in his gaze, and it grates on me. “You still living over on Blythe?” he asks.

“I’m off campus now. It’s quieter.”

“Oh,” he says, his cheeks coloring slightly. He shifts his weight, looking like he’s unsure whether to leave or keep going. Then he blurts, “Are you seeing anyone?”

“No,” I reply, my voice flat.

His face brightens. “We should meet up for coffee sometime. I owe you one. My treat.”

The way he says it, like he’s extending an olive branch or trying to make up for something, sends a wave of irritation through me. I remember how easily things crumbled between us when I pulled back last year, how he stopped texting when I stopped being the fun, carefree Birdie he’d once been drawn to.

I wonder if he’s still hanging out with the friends I walked away from—those biweekly dinner parties, their paint-and-sip nights, the midnight campus strolls I used to be a part of.

There were five of us back then. We used to trade secrets over cheap wine, cram for exams at the last minute, and dream out loud about the futures we thought we’d have.

And then the accident.

After that, it was like the ground opened up beneath me, and I was just falling, falling, falling, while they stayed anchored in their perfect, uncomplicated worlds. I didn’t belong anymore.

I swallow hard and hand Ben his receipt. “Maybe. I’ve been pretty busy lately.”

“Yeah, I get it,” he says, still smiling, but it’s slipping, put off by my distance. “Anyway, I’ll text you sometime.”

I nod, already turning away, and then he leaves, finally.

By the time my shift ends, I’m exhausted—not physically, but emotionally. Ben’s face lingers in my mind, and so does the weight of everything that fell apart. It’s not that I want my friends back—they were fair-weather at best—but I miss the version of myself who didn’t feel like this, so heavy and out of step.

I want to tap out, go home, and rot in bed. But I know better than that. If I stop moving, even for a second, I might never start again.

Instead, I head to the studio, where I can channel all this frustration, this disappointment, this lingering grief into my work. I need to mold these feelings into something tangible, something that’ll speak for me in ways I can’t.

It’s dark by the time I step inside, but I can already feel the relief creeping in. This is where I can shed everything else. This is where I can breathe again.

I set up my station, pulling out a slab of clay and kneading it with a little more force than necessary. My muscles are sore, my fingers aching from the day’s work, but there’s something cathartic about the repetitive motion. About the way the clay gives under my hands, as if it understands, as if it’s taking all the frustration and molding it into art.

There are a handful of pieces I still need to finish, and I have to get them right if I’m going to stand a chance at winning this fellowship. The pressure gnaws at me—constantly reminding methat this has to be perfect, or at least close enough to it. If I mess this up, I’m not sure what my fallback will be.

A minimum-wage job, less time for art, and mounting financial stress, most likely. Not exactly the vision of stability for a girl who’s struggling.

I stare at my half-finished sample on the table in front of me. Another large vase—it’s unpolished, and I like that it feels like two sides of me merged into one—delicate but intentional. Jagged yet purposeful. But something is missing, and I can’t figure out what it is.

I wipe my hands on my jeans and pull out my phone, typing out a quick text to Liam.

Birdie

I can’t match the vibe I’m going for. everything looks wrong. it’s like I’m too close to it and can’t see straight :(

While I wait for a response, I grab a needle tool and carefully carve more detail into the floral pattern along the edges. The tension in my chest loosens, just a little, as I focus on making each line intentional, sharp yet soft, like a whisper that leaves a mark.

I set the bat aside and turn to the next lump of clay, letting the frustration roll out of me. I pump out three more pieces in quick succession—another vase, a bowl, and a shallow dish—but none of them are quite right, either. I can feel it, in the way they sit on the table, in how my gut twists when I look at them. Each one is a little off, a little toosomething.

I wrap them in plastic, ready to call it quits for the evening. My own little Goldilocks moment—one’s too messy, the other’s too clean, the last is just plain boring. None of them feel like me.

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