The morning pressed down on her, heavy and grey, clouds hanging low like they were waiting for something to break. Amy stepped outside with her notebook tucked against her chest, the paper inside feeling thinner than usual, more exposed. The road was slick with rain, shining too brightly for how quiet everything felt.
Chloe walked beside her, hair already damp, shoulders squared like she was bracing for impact.
"Big day," she said, nudging Amy lightly.
Amy nodded, though her chest was tight enough to ache. The showcase sat in her mind like a held breath—exciting, terrifying, unavoidable. "Yeah," she said. "It feels... loud already."
Jamie caught up to them, slightly out of breath, sketchbook under his arm. His presence steadied something in her without him even trying.
"You're going to be amazing," he said quietly. "I've watched you build this."
Amy swallowed. "I'm scared what will happen if I mess it up."
"That just means you care," he replied.
The school gates came into view, and with them, Kelsey. She leaned against the lockers like she owned the place, Clara and Mackenzie flanking her, all sharp smiles and waiting eyes.
"Well, if it isn't Rivers," Kelsey said. "Hope the spotlight doesn't blind you today." Mackenzie let out a small giggle "watch where you look or Amy will blind you. I can already see her glowing from the amount of attention."
The words slid under Amy's skin. Her stomach twisted, reflexive and fast. Jamie's hand slipped into hers, warm but grounding.
"She wants you rattled," he murmured. "Don't give her that."
Amy nodded, more to herself than anyone else.
I am more than her voice.
The morning lessons blurred together. Amy wrote whenever she could, notes for the showcase mixing with fragments of thought. Kelsey hovered—dropped pens, too-long looks, deliberate sighs—but Amy stayed anchored. Breath in. Pen down. One sentence at a time.
Fear doesn't mean stop. It means this matters.
By lunch, the courtyard was damp and restless. Leaves clung to the ground, shoes splashed through shallow puddles. Amy, Chloe, and Jamie took refuge under the oak tree, shoulders close.
Kelsey's gaze followed her.
"Careful up there," Kelsey called across the space. "Wouldn't want everyone to see you crack under all that pressure."
Amy felt it hit—sharp, familiar—but this time it didn't hollow her out. Jamie squeezed her hand.
"You're steady," he whispered.
Chloe leaned in. "She can't touch what's yours."
Amy breathed. Slow. Controlled. The knot in her chest loosened just enough.
After school, the rain softened into mist. The walk home was quiet, thoughtful.
"You didn't shrink today," Jamie said. "That counts."
Amy nodded. "I didn't crumble," she said, surprised by how much that mattered. "That feels like something."
At the foster house, warmth wrapped around her like permission to exhale. Mrs. Carter had made tea. Chloe flipped through her sketches at the table. Amy sat by the window and opened her notebook.
Courage isn't calm. It's showing up while your hands are shaking.
Jamie brought cocoa and sat beside her.
"You're ready," he said. "No matter how it goes."
Amy pressed her fingers into the warmth of the mug, then into his hand. "I just hope I remember who I am when I'm standing there."
She wrote one last line before closing the notebook.
I write for courage. I write for survival. I write because my voice deserves space.
Rain tapped softly against the glass. The storm hadn't passed—Kelsey hadn't softened, the spotlight hadn't dimmed—but something inside Amy had steadied. She looked at Jamie, at Chloe nearby, and felt a quiet certainty settle.
She wasn't fearless.
But she was ready.
And somewhere, she hoped, her mum knew it.