Crossroads

2. Jess

"Finally" I exhale as my bags fall to the floor.

The walls in my old room feel smaller than I remember. I guess everything shrinks when you come back to it, like the air's been sucked out and there's barely enough left to breathe. My mom hasn't changed a thing since I left for school, not even the posters tacked up on the walls—faded band photos and a print of some obscure artist I thought was deep when I was sixteen. It's like I never left, which is probably the worst part.

I pull my sketchbook onto my lap, flipping through pages that feel as empty as the room. A few half-finished drawings stare back at me, nothing I feel like touching. Every time I try to start something, it fizzles out halfway through, like the spark's gone. I dropped out of art school two months ago and told myself I just needed a break, some time to reset. But now I'm not so sure. 

What if I'm just another one of those people who talks about what they're going to do but never actually does it?

I reach for the pencil, tracing a line along the edge of a sketch, but it's not doing anything for me. Maybe the problem is this town. I thought coming back home would give me some perspective, a chance to figure things out, but all it's done is remind me why I left in the first place. Everyone here is stuck in the same routine, same conversations, same dead-end jobs. No one gets it. No one gets me.

I glance out the window. The sky is fading into a soft orange, the kind of sunset you see in paintings but never think exists in real life. It's beautiful, but it's wasted on this place. You could paint the sky in gold, and it still wouldn't change the fact that this town feels like a trap. You either make peace with it or get out before it swallows you whole.

Dropping the pencil, I stand up and grab my jacket off the chair. I need air, space, anything that isn't these four walls. My mom will probably ask me where I'm going if I walk out the front door, so I slip out the window like I used to in high school. Some things never change.

The street is quiet as I land on the patch of grass below, the summer heat clinging to the air even as the sun starts to dip. The neighborhood looks the same—trimmed lawns, fading paint, the distant sound of a lawnmower somewhere down the block. It's like a postcard from the past, frozen in time.

I don't really have a plan. I just start walking, my feet hitting the pavement in time with the thoughts spinning in my head. I wish I could turn them off sometimes. The doubt, the frustration, the feeling that maybe I'm not cut out for this after all. Being an artist used to mean something to me. It was the one thing I thought I'd always have, even when everything else fell apart. But now, I'm not even sure who I am without it.

The art school was supposed to be my way out. A ticket to something bigger, something real. I spent years dreaming about that life—the city, the galleries, the people who actually got it. But when I got there, it wasn't what I thought it'd be. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of people who were better than me, smarter than me, more creative than I could ever hope to be. It's like I lost my voice somewhere along the way, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get it back.

I wander past a row of houses, their porch lights flickering on as dusk settles in. The air smells like cut grass and someone grilling burgers down the street. It's the kind of smell that used to feel comforting, like home. Now it just feels heavy, like a weight pressing on my chest.

I stop at the corner of Maple and Fifth, staring at the intersection like it's going to tell me where to go next. There's a garage across the street—"Ray's Auto"—with the lights still on inside. Someone's working late, though I can't see who from where I'm standing. I wonder what it's like to have a job where you can actually see the results of your work, something you can touch, something that runs when you're done with it. Fixing cars seems so... final. You fix it, and it's fixed. No questions, no second-guessing.

That's not how it works with art. You're never really done. There's always some part of you whispering that it could be better, that it's not good enough, that you're not good enough.

I sigh and keep walking, my hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets. I don't know what I expected from coming back here. Some kind of clarity, maybe. Some kind of sign that would point me in the right direction. But all I've found is the same old restlessness, the same questions I've been trying to outrun for years.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out, glancing at the screen. A text from my mom: Dinner's ready whenever you're back.

I sigh and slip the phone back into my pocket. She's trying, I know. But every conversation feels like I'm walking through quicksand, her trying to understand what I'm going through, and me trying not to explode from frustration. She still doesn't get why I dropped out, why I couldn't just "push through" like she says. It's not like school was the hard part. It was feeling like I didn't belong there, like I was faking it and everyone could see through me.

I pause in front of an old diner, its neon sign flickering weakly against the darkening sky. I remember coming here as a kid, sitting in the booth with my sketchpad while my mom ordered milkshakes. I'd draw for hours, lost in my own world. Back then, it felt like art was everything. Now it just feels like another thing I've failed at.

I press my hand to the glass, staring inside at the empty booths, the glow of the jukebox in the corner. Sometimes I wonder if I've been chasing the wrong thing all along. Maybe I've been looking for answers in the wrong places. Maybe the problem isn't the art or the school or this town. Maybe it's me.

With a sigh, I turn away from the diner and start walking again, my feet taking me down streets I know by heart. I don't know where I'm going, but anywhere has to be better than standing still.