Unfinished Lines

Michaila Matthews '26

The day started, and before her feet even touched the ground, she’d noticed her own shadow lingering behind her. The crisp, chilly air tickled her cheeks. Rustling leaves began to decay and fall to the ground. The walk to her studio was brief. With each step, she tried to push the encroaching essence somewhere far or deep inside, away from the already prying eyes.  

“Morning.” She muttered, following the glass door and chime. Her own tiny studio, just enough room for a few workers. Framed paintings and artwork strung about, tan brick, and earthy green accent walls. A front desk. Further in, a perfect space for two stations. A pair of eyes bore holes into her own. 

“Were you up late again?” Milo questioned. A lift of his eyebrow. Then that knowing wrinkle in study. “Lori.”

“It’s hitting me now,” she half-jokingly confessed, a disposable cup of steaming coffee in hand. “Just glad no one’s scheduled for me today.” He scoffed, a grin on his face. He steadily scrubbed at the spotless counter. Normally, talking with Milo helped her stay distracted. To take some edge off. To turn off that whispering, nitpicky voice, always screaming in the silence. 

“Ah, actually,” he paused. “Your favorite client is coming by—”

“Again?!” She hissed. Her gaze quickly drifted around the shop. Equipment was sterilized and organized. The studio already stocked. Machines, needles, inks, disposable supplies—

“Ay! She left a very unhappy voicemail. I’m assuming to finalize the design.” 

She’d known. Knew that all this was coming at some point. But there was nothing to give. No inspiration. No sketch to satisfy. No fully finished design or work with true, deeper meanings. Nothing to be outwardly proud of getting etched on skin.

“Also, some mail came early. Front des—”

“Thanks, I’ll get it.” She uttered with a simple directness. Grabbing the thin paper with three steady fingers. “You sure we can’t push it back?” She questioned. Her smile forced, a gnawing sense of guilt. 

“Don’t think so… she’d insisted, just had to stop by today.” She forced out a sharp exhale. “Wouldn’t be very ‘Reliable Business Owner’ of you, anyway.” He announced.

She scowled at the envelope. The paper creased and wrinkled in her grasp. Things like this left people without a business. Yet, without designs, there’s no business at all. Her brows furrowed. Like her glare would suddenly turn the oh-so-important mail into junk— all to dispose of. 

Her feet dragged her instinctively. The bag, crossed over a shoulder, seemed to weigh tons. When her office door closed at her heels, the paper was tossed to the growing stack of disregarded sealed ivory. Teeth clawed at the inside of her lip. The walls closed in. Hands twitched, eager to pick at the flesh around her nails. To claw at the skin around her throat. But her hands flitted to her bag, expelling the contents. Planner, headphones, tablet, and sanitizer. With the quiet, the emptiness, the whole controlled façade seemed to crumble.

Papers were sprawled about, and the bin of crumpled mess had begun to overflow. An unclosed book, laden with ideas, plenty of sketches drafted on paper, but hollow as of late. Flawed. Incomplete. Her tablet wasn’t any better. Disorder. Untidy. Dissatisfaction. Evidence of failure. The despair nagged; she could lose her life’s work, all her tireless efforts. Her gaze turned glassy for a mere moment. Planner, headphones, tabl—

A thin book of poetry caught her eye. She had forgotten it was even there. Dust gripped the beige cover. Pages had begun to curve at the edges. The spine, labeled with a faded barcode plastered on the back. All yellowing with age.

Everything came back; she had borrowed it. The dawn was shrouded in a foggy haze that day. Dew clung to the damp earth, trees lined the walkway, and foliage overhead framed each glistening wooden bench. The same flower shop lady swept her storefront; each flower never seemed to deteriorate as time passed. The pace of life was slow, along with the occasional car chugging by.

She had entered the building. Teeth grazed the inside of her lip; her limbs tense, she’d struggled to come up with ideas all night and that morning. All she sought was creativity. A vision. The building. Eerily desolate except for the hum of the AC. Built-in bookshelves spanned for miles, wooden tables, leather armchairs, and ceiling-high beams. The ambiance was nostalgic and comforting— a rustic feel.  An empty library. Fingers glided down an aisle of wood.

One second, calm. The next, gasping and flinching back. Her heart raced. A cat, smokey and dark-eyed, stared back.

A woman appeared at her side, a small stack of books in hand. “Oh. Sorry about him. Are you looking for anything?”

Pretty, a warm smile graced her lips. The librarian looked younger, with a softness that made talking easier. She wondered if the librarian had stared back, lingered at the hint of silver dyed into wavy locks, the numerous earrings and rings, or the trail of ink that ran down her arm. 

She herself was adorned with a gold necklace, simple studded earrings, and a lengthy skirt that flowed on her form. Soft in every way, she herself was not. Hushed chatter flowed; they’d fallen into a rhythm effortlessly. It began with questioning, disbelief, soon turned into hastily blurted information, and quickly took on a different weight. Concerns. Opening up. She’d dragged a cart over and plucked out a book. It was meant to serve as a reference or even a source of motivation. Urged her to check it out, ‘It might help you relearn how to imagine,’ she assured. 

A tremble forced the book in hand to drop.

She lifted her eyes away from the literature. Inhaled and drew out a hand, grasping her sketchbook of designs for her current client— no calculated attempts. No perfection. She’d try. With the text, the joy that was found in paperback always escaped in inked art. She’d allowed her mind to wander as pencil pressed onto paper. To spark something new. To remove the fear of failure. To lean into imperfection, into the abstract. To focus on the process rather than the outcome—

A slosh of tan liquid pooled on the paper. Staining the surface. Her coffee. She pushed through the need to restart. The blaring alarms in her head snarled. She must have been lost in thought. In letting go.

The advice she’d been given, deeply imprinted in her mind. The woman’s words resonated: ‘Mess can sometimes be the best way to rediscover the joy in creating.’