Page 78 of Tilly in Technicolor
“That’s patently false,” Oliver says, his voice rough. I’m surprised by how serious he looks.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, but you’re wrong,” he says, scooting his chair closer to me.
He reaches out, grabbing one of my hands between both of his, and the gesture feels as natural as my heart beating.
“You make people feel seen,” Oliver continues. “You’re like a… a… prism.”
“Excuse me?”
“Like a crystal prism. You absorb the world around you but somehow release this brilliant spectrum of colors through your words that people see themselves in. It’s a gift.”
“I… no. That’s not…”
“I’ve seen the comments people leave you on your Babble posts. People connect with what you say.”
“You’ve looked at my Babble?” Lately I’ve been showing Ollie drafts of my writing or sending him little excerpts I like, but I didn’t think he was on the app.
Oliver reaches into his pocket and fishes out his phone, squinting at the screen as he swipes across it a few times before turning it to face me. “The only notifications I get from it are when you post.”
Sure enough, he has an account. The standard gray avatar is in the upper left corner withuser276527below it. I slip my hand out from his grip and scroll. I’m the only account he’s following and…
He’s liked every single one of my posts.
Literally, all of them.
But it doesn’t end there.
He’s also upvoted countless kind and supportive comments from other users, even writingagreedwith a little heart in response to some.
“You see,” he says, tapping the screen. “It’s a simple truth. People like reading your words. And you like writing them. So why not pursue it professionally? Isn’t that what you want to do?”
Here’s the issue: it is what I want to do. So badly. But wanting to do it doesn’t suddenly make me feel like less of a mortifying imposter at the idea of attempting it.
My eyes scour Oliver’s serious face. His warm smile. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
He believes in me. He genuinely, truly, believes that I canwrite things worth reading. And even more, he wants me to do it because it makes me happy.
It’s the first time anyone’s ever encouraged me to do something for the simple fact that it brings me joy. It’s the first time that’s ever been enough.
If Oliver can believe in me like this, why can’t I believe in myself?
I try the idea on—this vision of me being scared and going for it anyway. Flinging myself into the unknowns and trusting I’ll make it out alive. It feels loose and vast and terrifying and the sharpest bit thrilling as I twirl around in it.
I kind of like it.
“Okay,” I whisper, leaning toward him. “Maybe I will.”
He grins like I told him he won the lottery.
And all of a sudden, it’s the most important thing in the world to find a jobright now.That I send pieces to whoever is accepting. That I take this delicious fantasy and turn it into my immediate reality.
It’s the aura phase of hyperfocus, of immediate gratification, and there’s no fighting it… not for me, at least.
I turn back to my laptop, and it feels like I’m plugging my brain directly into the keyboard, googling résumé templates, job positions, open calls for submissions.
I lose myself so thoroughly in this deep dive—in this irresistible need to hold on to this feeling of… ofbelievingin myself, to make this happen—that the next thing I know, Oliver is rubbing my back and saying my name.
