The day of the self-portrait presentations crept closer with every tick of the school clock. For most students, it was just another assignment. For Lily, it felt like she was being asked to stand on a stage in a spotlight that burned.
She kept adding to the portrait in layers. Every day after school, she returned to Fable & Thread, sketchpad tucked tightly under her arm like a secret. And every day, the drawing grew.
She added colors—soft purples and deep greens, the kind that made her feel grounded. She gave her illustrated self a crown made of leaves and stars, delicate but real. Around her shoulders, she drew an open sky, as if the version of herself on the page belonged to something bigger than hallways and cafeteria corners.
But there was still one thing missing: her eyes.
She couldn't bring herself to draw them yet.
"They see too much," she whispered one evening as she stared down at the page.
Nathan was nearby, sorting bookmarks at the counter. "What's that?"
"Nothing," she said quickly, cheeks warming.
He didn't press, but he walked over slowly, crouched beside her chair, and looked at the sketch again. "Still no eyes?"
She hesitated. "What if they're wrong?"
He tilted his head. "Wrong how?"
"Too sad. Too empty. Or worse—what if they show nothing at all?"
Nathan was quiet for a moment. "Eyes can hold a lot," he said. "But whatever you draw will be right. Because it's you drawing them. That's the power."
Lily swallowed. The power.
No one had ever said that to her before. That she had power. That she could choose what to reveal and what to protect.
Later that night, she sat at her desk at home, the sketchpad open beneath her lamp. She stared at the space where the eyes should be and tried to be still.
She closed her own eyes for a moment and pictured herself—not as she was when others were looking, but as she felt in that bookstore, surrounded by dust and light and quiet. As she felt when she was drawing something true. As she felt when Nathan spoke to her like she mattered.
When she opened her eyes, her pencil moved without hesitation.
Two eyes. Dark, wide, with the faintest gleam in them—not sadness, not emptiness. But something more fragile. Hope.
She set the pencil down and exhaled.
The next day, Ms. Rivas had them present their portraits in front of the class.
Lily's stomach twisted. She watched one student after another stand up, laugh awkwardly, and mumble about their pieces. Most drawings were playful or abstract—stick figures with neon hair, faces hidden behind sunglasses, or cartoon versions of themselves with superhero capes.
Then it was Lily's turn.
She held her sketchpad tightly as she walked to the front of the room. Her hands trembled slightly.
She turned the page around to face the class.
There were no laughs. No whispers.
Just silence.
Ms. Rivas stepped forward. "Would you like to say something about it?"
Lily hesitated.
Then: "This is me," she said. Her voice was quiet, but steady. "Not the one you see in the hallway. Or the one people call names. This is the one I see when I'm alone. When I feel safe."
Ms. Rivas smiled softly. "It's beautiful, Lily."
Someone in the back clapped. Then someone else joined in.
It wasn't loud. It wasn't everyone. But it was enough.
Later, in the hallway, a girl Lily barely knew—Sophie, from biology—walked up to her. She looked nervous.
"Hey," Sophie said, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Your drawing was… really cool. I liked it."
Lily blinked. "Thanks."
Sophie nodded and hurried away, but Lily stood frozen for a second.
It wasn't a grand moment. But it was real. And real moments counted more than she'd ever realized.
That afternoon, she walked to the bookstore with her head a little higher. When she pushed the door open, Nathan looked up from behind the counter.
"You did it, didn't you?" he asked.
Lily grinned.
"I did."