It happened on a quiet Thursday.
The instructor stepped into the room with a different energy the kind that made people sit up straighter even before he spoke.
Today, he said, everyone will come up and share a moment that changed them. Just one. No pressure just honesty.
The room shifted.
Laughter tried to bubble up, but it didn't land. Everyone knew this wasn't a joke.
People went up some shy, some bold. One talked about getting lost as a child. Another about moving cities. A girl near the window cried when she mentioned losing her mom
Then… my name was called.
My heart jumped. I didn't look at Anna. I didn't look at anyone.
I just stood.
Not because I was ready.
I didn't tell them about Josh. I didn't mention pain, fear, or how some nights I couldn't recognize my own body.
Instead, I talked about painting.
How I found color when the world around me went grey.
I told them about the recent competition, how Anna had dragged me in when I didn't believe I was good enough and how, somehow, I placed third.
POV: Sometimes the smallest win can sound like thunder in your chest not because of the prize, but because you didn't think you could ever stand on that stage.
The class clapped. A few smiled. Anna beamed with so much pride you'd think she was the one who won.
No one asked for more. And that was enough.
That evening, I walked home slower than usual. Not because I was tired but because I didn't want the feeling to fade. The breeze hit my face, and for once, it didn't feel like it was trying to take something from me.
When I got home, the house was quiet. Uncle Benny was out. Josh was in his room.
I poured myself a glass of cold water and went into mine, shutting the door behind me like I was sealing in the good.
My trophy sat on the table. Just a wooden frame with bronze at the center, but it sparkled like gold in my eyes.
I smiled a real one this time
POV: Sometimes, surviving is enough. But sometimes, you want more you want to live.
Later that night, I sat cross legged on my bed with a blank canvas beside me and my old journal open.
I flipped through pages.
Some had pain written so raw, it burned just to read. Some had dried tears staining the corners. Some… were just empty.
And then came a line I had written weeks ago:
I don't know what tomorrow holds. But I want to meet her the version of me who made it through.
I touched that sentence with the tip of my finger, whispering under my breath:
I think I'm closer to her now but not everything was warm.
While painting that evening, I caught myself wondering what if Mama saw this painting?
Would she understand it?
Would she see the war in the brush strokes or just call it a waste of time?
I imagined showing her the trophy, the photos, the certificate Anna took too many pictures of.
And all I could hear was her voice.
Third place? Is that what you're celebrating? You couldn't come first?
Painting? How will that feed you?
What kind of girl spends time like this instead of finding something useful to do?
POV: Some wounds don't bleed. They echo.
I lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling, letting my thoughts dance like shadows.
There was no applause here. No paint. No Anna.
Just me. Just silence.
But for the first time, the silence didn't scare me. It didn't scream. It just… sat there.
And I sat with it.
I picked up my brush and dragged a streak of red across the canvas. Then black. Then white. I didn't know what I was painting. I just needed to move. Needed to feel something else take shape in front of me.
The strokes were messy.
The colors were wild.
But the canvas didn't judge.
It just took it. All of it and held me while I fell into it.
I stopped painting around midnight. My hands were tired. My mind was a little clearer. I washed up, lay down, and whispered again:
I'm still here.
Not broken. Not whole. But here.
POV: Some nights you don't need saving. You just need to know you made it through one more day without falling apart.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the same wall I'd stared at for weeks.
I thought of Mama.
I imagined going back home and telling her everything. The things I still didn't have full words for. The confusion. The shame. The fact that I couldn't even tell if I liked it or hated it, or if I was allowed to feel both.
And I knew what she would say.
Don't talk like that. What kind of girl says such things?"
Don't you know how to close your legs? Or you want to disgrace this family?
POV: Some mothers raise you to stay silent, not safe.
I swallowed back the sting in my chest.
Mama didn't believe in feelings. She believed in surviving even if it meant burying yourself alive under expectations.
But I was here now. And somehow, I was still breathing.
Still painting. Still trying.
And that, for tonight, was enough.
She placed her journal down and stared at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above.
There was no applause in her room. No fireworks.
Just the quiet rhythm of her own breath steady, living, becoming.
And that was enough.
She pulled the blanket over her body, hugged herself tight, and whispered,
I'm not broken. I'm becoming.
The moonlight slipped through the curtains, casting silver patterns across her walls like a quiet
promise from the universe that tomorrow would come again.
And this time, she wouldn't just survive it.
She would paint it.
who is looking forward for new change?