Chapter Three: Paper Wings

Valentina didn’t draw that night.

She sat on her bedroom floor, the lamp throwing soft shadows across her walls, the flyer Jessa gave her resting on top of her sketchbook like a dare. The deadline was in two weeks. Two pieces required. Original work. Personal meaning. Digital or physical submission. That last part stung—her laptop hadn’t worked since last fall, and the library scanner was always broken.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. The sound of her father coughing from the other room broke the silence like glass.

He hadn’t come out for dinner. She’d left a bowl of rice and beans on the kitchen counter, untouched. Same as the tea this morning. Same as yesterday. She told herself it wasn’t her fault, but the guilt clung like damp clothes.

A knock came at her window.

Valentina jumped.

She pushed aside the curtain to see Leo standing on the fire escape, holding a plastic container and raising an eyebrow like it was the most normal thing in the world to be trespassing on a second-story landing at ten at night.

She opened the window. “Are you insane?”

“Mid-level,” he said, stepping through. “Brought food.”

“You brought tacos,” she said, eyeing the container.

“Authentic,” he grinned. “Well, gas station-authentic.”

Valentina sighed but let him sit cross-legged on the floor. He handed her a taco and looked around. “Still no posters on the walls.”

“Why decorate a place you’re just surviving in?” she muttered.

He didn’t argue.

A few minutes passed as they ate in silence. Then Leo tapped the flyer on her sketchbook.

“Jessa told me. You going to do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it is,” he said. “You draw. You submit. You win.”

Valentina gave him a look. “And if I don’t win?”

“Then you still tried. You still fought back. You know, it's better to fail while trying than to live with regrets.”

She didn’t answer right away. Part of her wanted to believe it could be that simple—that trying was enough. But trying didn’t pay rent. Trying didn’t fix her father. Trying didn’t keep her from drowning.

Still…

Later, after Leo left and the apartment fell into that heavy, 2 a.m. silence, Valentina opened her sketchbook.

She didn’t start with lines or shading. She just stared at the blank page.

Then, with slow fingers, she began to draw. Her mother’s hands—delicate, strong. Her father’s eyes before they dimmed. The boardwalk. The storm. The girl standing against it.

Piece by piece, she began stitching her truth onto paper. No more hiding. No more waiting for perfection.

Just her.

Just now.

By sunrise, her fingers ached, her eyes burned, and a single page sat drying beside her—imperfect and honest.

She looked at it and whispered to herself, “Let’s see if you can fly.”

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