Wednesday started with the sun timidly streaming through the bedroom window. I adjusted my uniform and tied my hair into a ponytail, feeling the soft morning warmth rise up my neck. In my backpack, the folder with the drawings I planned to present to the illustration group felt heavier than it really was, each detail reminding me of the expectations and anxiety consuming me. My heart raced, and with every small sound in the house—the coffee hissing in the kitchen, the wind rattling the window—I felt the morning grow more intense.
Morning classes passed with laughter, focus, and plenty of notes, but my mind kept wandering. The opportunity the professor offered was exactly what I needed to escape the boredom of theoretical lessons. He had seen potential in me, and that only heightened my excitement. I would show everyone I wasn't a nobody. I would be a great artist!
During lunch, Rafael fiddled distractedly with his tablet, Lorena chattered about the semester's assignments, and Matheus arrived last, setting his bag on the chair with that subtle smile, noticeably out of sync with my enthusiasm.
"So, excited to join Professor José Carlos' group?" Lorena teased, noticing my excitement.
"Very!" I slammed my hand on the table, the snap of my fingers echoing. "Seriously, this is the chance I needed! Can you imagine working with him? My art could finally evolve!" My voice came out louder than intended, full of excitement.
Matt raised his eyebrows slightly, and I noticed a small flicker of jealousy—or concern.
"You want to say something?" I asked, uneasy.
He shook his head.
"You'll have to show everything you've got," he said, weighing each word. "Not that I doubt your talent."
"Do you think I won't be able to handle it?" I challenged, feeling a slight heat rise to my cheeks, mixed with irritation.
"That's not what I meant…" He tried to defend himself, but the tension lingered.
"Aza has been scribbling since she learned she had hands," Rafael interjected, smiling, but his gaze shifted between Matt and me, sensing the tension in the air.
I rolled my eyes.
"They're not scribbles, it's art!" I sighed, returning my gaze to Matt. "And for your information, genius student, I'm great at what I do. Even as a freshman, I landed this opportunity."
"Lots of students get things from professors in their first semesters without talent, little flower. Just determination and a pretty face…" he said, provocatively.
"What are you implying, Matheus?" I asked, a mix of offense and anger.
He opened his mouth to respond, but Lorena interrupted, her expression tense toward him as she turned to me:
"Calm down, Aza," she said in defense of the guy, jaw tight. "What Matt means is you're right. Nobody gets this kind of invitation in the first week; it's a bit unusual. Don't build up too much expectation, but if it works out, give it your all." Her eyes softened.
I took a deep breath, still irritated.
"Yeah…" I exhaled. "I appreciate the concern, but I can handle opportunities that matter for my future on my own."
I grabbed my bag and got up from the table.
"You're not going to finish eating?" asked Rafa, concerned, tense from the scene.
"I lost my appetite," I replied, heading toward the exit.
The corridor of the Arts building was busy, but my mind tried to focus on the illustration group. Sweaty hands and a racing heart reminded me that Matt's provocation still burned inside me. Each step on the wooden floor echoed my thoughts: Focus on the drawings, not him.
Opening the door to room 24, the smell of paper, ink, and old wood enveloped me. There were more members than I expected, sitting around tables with pencils, pads, and tablets, talking in low tones. Professor José Carlos leaned against the wall, observing with a smile that mixed charisma and something undefinable.
"Azaléia!" he called, walking toward me with light steps. "I'm glad you could come."
A shiver ran through me when he leaned slightly and planted two quick kisses on my cheeks; the warm, firm skin contrasted with the sweet, citrus scent of his cologne. The sound of pencil on paper beside me seemed amplified, and every gesture he made made me shiver.
"Thank you for inviting me, Professor. I'm really excited," I said, trying to keep my gaze steady, though he seemed to expect me to prolong the interaction.
"I can see it in your drawings," he commented, pointing to one of the tables. "Did you bring your sketches?"
I nodded and sat down, pulling the folder from my backpack. He settled next to me, his arm slightly brushing mine without me noticing at first. A shiver ran down my spine, but I tried to focus on the sketches.
"You have potential, Aza," he said, leaning in slightly to observe the sketches, so close I could smell him stronger. "You just need to trust your instinct more."
We talked about techniques, inspirations, and the group, but soon the compliments began to feel exaggerated—or was it just my imagination? Every observation about my posture or the way I handled materials made my heart race, and a shiver ran down my arms every time he got too close. I tried to rationalize: these were just tips… but Matt's comment kept echoing in my mind, making me question every gesture of his.
"I like seeing how dedicated you are to every detail," he said softly, almost a whisper. "It's rare to find someone so focused… and so intense."
I smiled, trying to rationalize. It's professional, just professional, I thought, but his lingering gaze and tone made me restless. I scratched the back of my neck discreetly, averting my eyes.
"Don't worry, Professor. I'm excited to learn and contribute to everyone here," I said firmly, adjusting my backpack, trying to keep space between us.
"We are too!"
He tapped my shoulder gently twice before standing but lingered just long enough for me to notice his gaze didn't immediately leave me. A small, but unsettling detail.
The meeting ended with my official registration in the group. I left the room, each step on the wooden corridor echoing my mix of excitement and tension. The feeling of having done something important for myself, but also having crossed subtle boundaries I shouldn't, stuck with me.
When I got home, I found Rafael in the kitchen, mixing ingredients for a dish I didn't yet recognize. He looked at me, raising an eyebrow.
"How did it go?" he asked, putting down the utensil and coming closer.
"I did it!" I took a deep breath, still processing everything. "I'm in Professor José Carlos' group."
Rafael smiled, but his eyes caught my discomfort.
"It wasn't all joy, huh?"
I sighed and sat on the counter, explaining the awkward moments and ambiguous compliments. Rafael listened, leaning against the counter, arms crossed, patience in his eyes.
"You did well keeping your composure," he said finally. "Inside, you'll learn and grow. But, Aza… if this continues, you know what to do."
Minutes later, my phone buzzed: a message from Matt.
"Sorry about lunch today. Congrats on joining José Carlos' group. How about a truce? Want to go to Pedra Branca this weekend?"
I smiled, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. I replied with an emoji and a promise that we'd talk more on Saturday.
As I put my phone down, I realized that the day wasn't just about joining the illustration group. It was about boundaries, noticing subtle signs, and how much certain presences were already affecting me, positively or negatively. The lessons wouldn't come only from pencils or paper, but from the people around me as well.