I feel really really bad about this. Like, SO bad. Like a fake. My art show was tonight, just at the community hall, cause it’s a small town and there’s not really anywhere else. Everyone was there, everyone. Mrs. Henderson from the general store, Pastor Dave, even Mr. Fitzwilliam who never leaves his house. And they were all saying how amazing my painting was, the big one, the one of the creek. How much passion, how much *soul*. And I just… stood there. Nodding. Smiling. Like a puppet. Because inside I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was like they were looking at a completely different painting, one I didn’t even make. And it’s not just tonight. It’s been happening for a while now. All the colors, the reds and blues and greens that used to just EXPLODE in my head when I was painting, like fireworks going off, they’re just… flat now. Brown. Grey. Like when you leave a soda out too long and all the fizz is gone. My hands just move, automatically, putting the paint where it’s supposed to go, but it’s not *me* doing it. Not the me that used to stay up till 3am just because I couldn’t stop, I just *had* to finish that one part. Now I just want to go to bed, even when I’m excited about it, I mean I *think* I’m excited about it. It feels like a chore, like homework or something. And everyone around here, they think I’m gonna be some big artist, move to the city, make it big. My mom tells everyone about it, every single day, every day. Like it’s already decided. And I don’t even know what to do. I can’t tell anyone here. Everyone knows everyone, you know? Like, if I told my mom I don’t wanna paint anymore, she’d probably just… I don’t even know. Cry, probably. And then everyone would know, and then what? What else am I gonna do? There’s nothing else here. Just cows and fields and the same creek I’ve painted a million times. It’s like I'm stuck, stuck in this picture that everyone else drew for me, and I can’t even see the actual colors anymore. I just feel… empty. And I feel so guilty about it, like I’m letting everyone down. Even myself, the old me. The one who used to actually feel something when she painted. Where did that girl even go? I don’t know.