Page 25 of Pieces

Liv would judge me for being in on a Friday night.

I press the off button on my laptop with a sigh, the screen going black and leaving me staring at my reflection. My hair’s pulled into a messy bun, my sweatshirt worn thin at the elbows, and my face…it’s tired. I look like someone who’s been stuck inside her head all day.

Leaning back in my chair, I stare at my planner like it’s my mortal enemy, which it isn’t, because I love planning. The pages are immaculate, color-coded blocks, neatly written reminders, and tiny doodles in the margins. It should be comforting. Instead, it feels like the weight of my own expectations is crushing me.

My eyes skim over the list of things I’ve already skipped this week: Dad’s game, lunch with Marcie, and a video call with Finn. The guilt gnaws at me. A pink Post-it catches my eye, stuck crookedly to the top corner of today’s page. “Follow up on social media strategy!” it reads in bold black ink, and beneath it, a messy scribble says, “Make it perfect.”

Perfect. It’s always the goal, isn’t it? Perfect grades, perfect plans, perfect daughter. Except I’m already failing on every front. I’m at the beginning stages of burnout and we’re only in October. A truth I don’t want to admit is, maybe I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. No amount of heavy planning can fix that.

I grab my pen, hovering over the planner. My chest tightens. All I want is to cross something off, to feel like I’m in control again. But every time I think about picking up my PR project, my brain freezes. The only thing I can think about is how I might not get it right, then I’d be letting people down, and I hate that feeling.

I don’t just want this project to be good; I need it to be great. To prove to everyone, my classmates, my professors, even my parents, that I can do this. That I’m capable of doing what I want to do, what I set out to do.

But the harder I push myself, the worse it gets. The ideas feel flat, like they’re coated in sandpaper.

Tossing the pen onto the desk with a frustrated huff, I press my forehead against the cool edge. “Get it together, Daphne,” I mutter under my breath.

The notebook lies open in front of me, the one I showed to Professor Vance. Its pages are filled with notes, arrows connecting ideas, and one phrase circled in bold: #WomenPlayToo. Picking it up, my pen taps against the corner as the words stare back at me. How do I make people care? How can I get them to see what I see?

Doodling absentmindedly on the edge of the page, my brain searches for something that feels relevant. The pen traces a circle over and over until my hand aches. When the frustration builds too high, the pen slams against the desk. My vision is crystal clear, but getting there feels impossible… Too big, too overwhelming. How am I meant to make this perfect? How can I make women feel seen in the same way men do in their sports?

This has to be good, to get myself in whoever’s good graces I need for my future. But not just that, it’s for every little girl who plays soccer on Saturdays because she loves it. It’s for every single girl ever told she wasn’t strong enough or tall enough. The truth is, seeing women exposed for their hard work is the biggest inspiration of all.

A buzz cuts through my thoughts. My phone lights up with a text from Marcie: You’re missing out! Wildcats won tonight and everyone is celebrating. Come join us, girlie x

The message lingers on the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. The idea of grabbing a red cup and blending into the noise tempts me for a moment. Pretending to care about who’s making out in the corner or who’s drunk-texting their ex might distract me. But it feels hollow, a temporary fix that won’t loosen the knot in my chest.

Instead, I push the notification aside, grab my notebook, and slip on my sneakers. The cool night air calls to me, refreshing and calm, the opposite of everything buzzing inside my head.

The campus courtyard is empty, the lampposts casting long shadows across the grass. I find my thinking spot near the giant oak tree. I can’t brave the floor tonight, so I opt for the bench near the building opposite instead. It’s cold but not freezing, plus this is far enough from the dorm noise to think, but close enough to feel like I’m not completely alone. The air smells like damp earth and fall leaves, and I hug my notebook to my chest, letting the coolness settle over me.

I flip to a fresh page, scrawling “Why Women’s Sports Matter” at the top. The words come faster now, spilling out in bursts or facts that I know:

Female athletes receive less than 5% of sports media coverage.

Women’s soccer teams still fight for equal pay despite outperforming men’s teams internationally.

Young girls drop out of sports at twice the rate of boys.

Each bullet point lands like a punch to my gut. These aren’t just stats; they’re the reasons I care, the reasons this work matters. But why does it feel like no matter how many facts I write, I’m still shouting into the void?

Welcome to my life. I’m a perfectionist and I hate it.

I want my own voice, but what does that even sound like? And how do I refine it to be heard?

Frustration bubbles inside me, I want to learn everything all at once instead of taking four long years of learning. My head is buzzing with hope and enthusiasm that feels quickly squashed when I remember I’m only a freshman.

What would people think if they knew I wasn’t perfect? That I can barely keep up, let alone stand out?

The sharp sting of tears pricks at my eyes, and I blink them away quickly. No. Not now. I take a deep breath, forcing the lump in my throat back down, and flip to a clean page in the notebook. There’s no use in falling apart.

My phone buzzes again, vibrating against the stone step. I glance at the screen, and my twin brother’s name flashes across it. Finn. I hesitate for a moment before answering.

“Hey.” I try to sound normal. “What’s up?”

“Are you okay?” he asks, skipping right past any greeting. His voice is steady but laced with concern, and it sends a pang through me.

Biting my lip, I press my pen into the paper. “I’m fine. Just went for a walk. I needed some air.”

---