Chapter 2 — A Spark Ignites
Clara
The notification buzzed just as Clara was settling into her favorite corner of the couch, legs curled under her oversized sweater. The golden light of the setting sun filtered through the large window, casting soft, honeyed hues across her apartment. Outside, the city murmured faintly—distant laughter from passersby, the gentle swish of flowering trees in the breeze. Clara’s eyes flicked to her phone, expecting a work email or one of Dani’s impulsive memes. Instead, the screen displayed a number she hadn’t saved:
Jamie Ellis: *Hi, Clara. I hope I’m not overstepping by texting again. I just wanted to say thanks for being kind the other day. It’s rare to find someone who responds to a mistake with grace instead of frustration. Anyway, I hope your day is going well.*
Clara blinked, her thumb hovering over the screen. She hadn’t expected to hear from Jamie again. Their brief exchange a few days ago had lingered in her mind longer than she cared to admit, the raw beauty of that first text replaying like the last notes of a haunting melody. She’d even caught herself wondering what kind of person could express themselves so vulnerably, so poetically, to someone they’d never met.
Her fingers twitched. Was it strange to reply? What if Jamie had only texted out of politeness? A familiar wave of hesitation crept in, her thoughts spinning—what if she misread their tone? What if they regretted reaching out? She was suddenly reminded of a time in college, when she’d poured her heart into a design only to have it dismissed as “too sentimental.” The sting of rejection had lingered for weeks. The memory made her hesitate, but then Jamie’s words echoed in her mind: *grace instead of frustration.* Maybe she didn’t have to overthink this.
She took a deep breath, letting herself write what came naturally, without dissecting every word.
Clara Martin: *Not overstepping at all. Honestly, your text was the most interesting thing to happen to me all week. My day’s been... alright. Quiet. How’s yours?*
The reply came almost instantly.
Jamie Ellis: *Quiet too. I’ve been grading essays, which is always a mix of inspiring and mildly soul-crushing. High schoolers have a talent for surprising you—and for completely ignoring assignment instructions.*
Clara laughed softly, the sound breaking the stillness of her apartment. She could almost hear Jamie’s wry humor in their words, the blend of weariness and affection.
Clara Martin: *Life is kind of like sketching, isn’t it? Some lines inspire, others just frustrate you. But at least you’re in a field where you get to make a difference.*
Her phone buzzed again.
Jamie Ellis: *You’re not wrong about life. And thank you for saying that. Sometimes I wonder if I’m actually making a difference or just spinning my wheels. What about you? What do you do?*
Clara hesitated. Her gaze wandered to the shelf where her art supplies sat, neglected and gathering dust. How could she explain her job without revealing the knot of dissatisfaction tangled around it? She adjusted her glasses, buying a moment to think.
Clara Martin: *I’m a graphic designer. I work for a marketing firm. It’s... fine. Pays the bills. But I guess I don’t feel like I’m really making a difference.*
Her phone vibrated again almost immediately.
Jamie Ellis: *“Fine” is such a loaded word, isn’t it? It says everything and nothing at once. Do you enjoy it? Designing, I mean.*
Clara exhaled slowly, staring at the question. Did she enjoy it? She used to. Once, creating art had been like breathing—natural, essential, and filled with joy. Her grandmother’s voice whispered in her memory: *Draw what you feel, Clara. Not what you think the world wants.* But deadlines, client demands, and the relentless grind of corporate monotony had smothered that joy like a candle beneath a glass.
Clara Martin: *I love designing. Or I used to. It’s complicated.*
The pause that followed was long enough for Clara to wonder if she’d said too much. But then her phone buzzed again.
Jamie Ellis: *Complicated is honest, though. Sometimes it’s hard to hold onto the things we love when life keeps pulling us in different directions. But for what it’s worth, I think it’s worth fighting for.*
Clara stared at the words, feeling an ache deep in her chest. She didn’t know Jamie, not really, but their words carried a weight that felt startlingly personal, as though they saw something in her she was afraid to admit to herself.
Her eyes fell on her sketchbook, lying abandoned on the coffee table. The leather cover was worn, its embossed floral design faded from years of use. A gift from her grandmother, it had once been her most cherished possession. She reached for it, her hand hesitant, the fear of disappointment curling in her stomach. What if the spark was gone? What if she wasn’t good enough anymore?
But Jamie’s words lingered, steady and insistent: *worth fighting for.*
She flipped open the sketchbook to a blank page, her pencil feeling foreign in her hand. For a moment, she hesitated, the silence of the room pressing in around her. Then, slowly, she began to draw. The faint whisper of graphite against textured paper filled the quiet, grounding her in the moment. She didn’t overthink, didn’t plan—she let the lines flow freely, sketching the image Jamie’s words had conjured: stacks of essays, a cluttered desk, and a figure hunched over it, their expression thoughtful and slightly weary.
The drawing wasn’t perfect—her hand felt rusty, the lines unsteady—but there was something freeing in the imperfection. For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t focused on the end result or whether it was “good enough.” She was just... creating.
Her phone buzzed again, breaking her concentration.
Jamie Ellis: *Sorry, that might have been a bit much. I’m prone to overthinking things. Occupational hazard, I guess.*
Clara smiled, her pencil still in hand.
Clara Martin: *If that’s overthinking, then the world needs more overthinkers like you. Honestly, your words might’ve just inspired me to pick up an old habit I’d almost given up on.*
After hitting send, Clara set her phone down and returned to her sketch. Her strokes grew more confident now, shading details into the desk, softening the figure’s expression. She added texture to the papers, the grain of the wood beneath them, the faint curl of an essay’s corner.
When she finally set the pencil down, she stared at the page in quiet wonder. It wasn’t about perfection—it was about the act of doing, of reclaiming a piece of herself she thought she’d lost.
As the golden light faded from her apartment, Clara felt a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in years—a spark of possibility, faint but unmistakable.
