Saturdays were sacred. Not because Tara had anything particularly spiritual going on, but because Saturdays were the only day the world slowed down enough for her to catch up.
This Saturday, however, felt suspiciously active.
Her phone alarm rang at 7:45 AM — a horror in itself — followed by a message from Rhea.
Rhea : WAKE UP. We are going to mold our emotions into clay. Or at least pretend to.
Tara replied with a single emoji: 🪦
By 9:30, she was standing outside a mildly pretentious pottery studio named "Clay & Soul", clutching a cup of coffee and a deep sense of regret.
Rhea showed up ten minutes late wearing an oversized denim jacket, sunglasses (unnecessary), and enthusiasm (suspicious).
"You look like a pop star in witness protection," Tara deadpanned.
"And you look like you regret all your life choices," Rhea beamed. "Perfect."
The studio smelled like wet earth and lavender incense. Shelves were lined with half-formed mugs, cracked bowls, and one sculpture that looked like a cursed pineapple. A sign at the front read:
"Pottery is the art of turning mess into something beautiful."
"I already do that with my feelings," Tara muttered under her breath.
The instructor, a lean man with a man bun and the calmness of someone who didn't know what email anxiety felt like, greeted them with a smile.
"Welcome, welcome. Today, we become one with the mud."
Tara blinked. "I didn't realize there was going to be spirituality involved."
"Oh relax," Rhea whispered. "Just imagine the mud is capitalism. Smash it."
Tara snorted — too loud — and the man bun guy raised an eyebrow.
They were paired off at a table with two wheels, one massive block of clay, and an endless amount of judgment from the artsy couple next to them who were already shaping what looked like a Greek vase.
"This is giving trauma flashbacks to school art class," Tara muttered, slapping the clay like it owed her money.
"Don't worry," Rhea said, spinning her wheel too fast. "We're not here to be good. We're here to be therapeutic."
"What are you making?"
"I call it... 'mild existential dread in bowl form.' You?"
"My self-esteem. But it's collapsing."
They both burst into laughter — too loud again — and the man bun instructor gave them a tight-lipped smile that said: you're not the kind of chaos I had in mind this morning.
Halfway through, Tara found herself concentrating harder than she'd expected. Her hands, covered in soft wet clay, moved in small, deliberate circles. The wheel hummed. Time blurred a little.
Maybe, she thought, there was something soothing about shaping something from nothing.
"Whoa," Rhea whispered beside her, leaning over to admire Tara's forming cup. "That's actually good. Like... usable good."
Tara blinked. "Really?"
"Yeah. Like something you'd overprice at an organic cafe and pretend it's inspired by the moon."
Tara laughed, a little shyly. "That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."
"I'm growing as a person."
Then, of course, Rhea sneezed — a full, dramatic, body-jerking sneeze — and her hand shot into Tara's wheel, ruining both their pieces instantly.
Clay flew. The wheel wobbled. The Greek vase couple gasped.
There was silence. And then Tara burst out laughing.
"You just sneezed on my emotional healing!"
"I was possessed by the clay gods," Rhea said, wiping her face. "They wanted chaos."
Even the instructor laughed this time — albeit nervously, while reaching for paper towels.
They walked out an hour later with damp clothes, stained hands, and two extremely weird-looking bowls that looked more like sea monsters.
But Tara felt lighter. Like something inside her had softened too — just a bit.
"You know," she said, holding up her ruined creation, "this might be my most accurate self-portrait."
"Oh yeah," Rhea said proudly, "this one's you: slightly off-balance, full of potential, and holding together by sheer willpower."
Tara grinned. "Thanks. I think."
They stopped for chai on the walk back, ducking under awnings as it started to drizzle.
"I'm glad we came," Tara said, sipping slowly.
Rhea nodded. "I knew the clay would speak to you."
"It said, 'You have control issues and trust problems.'"
"Very honest mud."
They both giggled like schoolkids.
Later that night, Tara placed her strange little bowl on the windowsill beside her plants. It was uneven. A little tilted. Cracked at the base.
But it held light just fine.
Just like her.