10. Birdie
10
BIRDIE
Mondays are never easy, but this one? It’s got me beat before I’ve even made it out of bed. My eyes feel glued shut, my limbs heavy and unwilling to move, and all I can think about is how I’m not ready to face another week of grinding effort.
I groan, stretching beneath the blankets, my body stiff from a restless night of tossing and turning. Maybe it’s the weight of the critique still clinging to me, or maybe it’s the fact that I stayed up too late talking to Liam.
I knew he had an early flight out this morning—he’s probably just landing in Raleigh now—but neither of us seemed willing to hang up. Every time the conversation lulled, we’d pick up again, something easy, something light, like the kind of chatter that fills the quiet when you’re sitting with someone you’ve known forever.
Except I haven’t known him forever. It’s only been a few weeks, but it feels . . . natural. Necessary, even. Like we’ve somehow skipped over all the usual barriers that make getting to know someone so exhausting.
I throw an arm over my eyes, replaying the weekend in my head. The critique at NCU, the professor’s cutting words echoing like a broken record: contrived .
I had thrown that piece together Friday night, dragged it into the critique unfinished and raw, full of potential but far from complete. And he still called it contrived. How? How could it feel fake when it was the truest thing I’d made in weeks?
I told myself to take it in stride, to see it as constructive feedback, but it’s hard to do that when it cuts so deep. Standing there in front of my peers, I felt gutted, and I wondered if he was right. If maybe I wasn’t cut out for this after all.
But then Liam’s voice was in my ear. Steady, unshakable. “It’s just one person’s opinion. You know what your work is. Don’t let some loser tell you it’s not good enough.”
He made it sound so simple. Like I could just decide not to let it bother me and move on. And for some reason, coming from him, it almost felt true.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. His words are still there, faintly hovering in my mind, easing some of the tension in my chest. He didn’t have to stay on the phone, not when he had a flight to catch at dawn. But he did.
And the weirdest part? I don’t feel guilty for taking up his time. Usually, I’d be spiraling, worrying about whether I was a burden, but with Liam, it’s different. I don’t have to overthink everything. I can just be.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, breaking the quiet, and I reach for it, fingers sluggish as I grab it. I squint at the screen—it’s a message from him.
Liam
just landed. hope you’re still sleeping off that grumpy coffee deprivation from last night
Birdie
just woke up. barely functioning. how was the flight?
Liam
short. missed out on sleep tho .. . wonder whose fault that is?
Birdie
definitely yours. you’re a terrible influence
Liam
glad to know I have such an effect on you
I shake my head, biting back a smile, but there’s no stopping the warmth that blooms in my chest. It’s too damn early to feel like this—like I’m walking around with some silly, giddy secret. But here we are.
I push myself out of bed and shuffle toward the kitchen. Sena’s already left for her seven-thirty class, so there are no distractions this morning. It’s just me, my coffee, and my thoughts about everything I still have to tackle.
I glance at the fridge, at the sticky note with my to-do list that’s hanging crookedly next to a picture of me and Sena at a festival. A get-to-know-you day before we officially moved in together, filled with cheap sangria and half-hearted critiques of overpriced art.
That day feels like a lifetime ago. The stillness before the surge.
Now, it’s everything at once—meet with Professor Tanaka, finish two more pieces for the proposal, somehow find time to polish my presentation, all while juggling work shifts and classes. And as if that weren’t enough, there’s the constant self-doubt creeping in every time I sit down at the wheel.
It’s still my happy place, but lately, I’ve started second-guessing. Overthinking. Doubting. Thank the heavens for Liam and his ever-present reassurances, always showing up like a lifeline just when I need it most.
I couldn’t lean on my old friends. After the accident, I didn’t want to let them in—not fully, not at all. They weren’t the kind of people who stick around when things get tough, and I think, deep down, I always knew that.
But with Liam, it’s different. Trusting him feels easy, effortless. Almost like it’s second nature, something I don’t have to question or force. But I’ve got enough on my plate without constantly overanalyzing my feelings for him.
Right now, I need to focus. It’s Monday, and I’ve got shit to do.
By the time I make it to Tanaka’s advanced hand-building class, the caffeine has only done half its job. My body’s here, but my mind? It’s still stuck in that hazy space between sleep and everything else demanding my attention.
It doesn’t help that hand building has never really been my thing. I’ve always been more at home with wheel throwing, carving, glazing—the techniques where the motions flow easily, where I can let my hands do the thinking.
Sculpting is a bit of a nightmare.
This class is a requirement for graduation, though, part of the practical application side. Some 3D4M majors seem to specialize in the wheel, along with sculpting, mold-making, and metalwork. It’s impressive, really—their ability to switch between fluidity and precision.
But hand building, for me, has always felt like the outlier, the one form that refuses to click. There’s something too deliberate about it, too meticulous. It’s like every single motion has to be carefully planned. And right now, planning isn’t exactly my strong suit.
Still, I sit down at my station, determined to will myself into some kind of productive mindset. In front of me sits a half-formed sculpture of a human hand, the fingers awkwardly splayed and misshapen.
It’s supposed to be part of a study on gesture and tension. Right now, it looks more like a deformed claw—or maybe a blob that can’t quite decide what it wants to be.
The frustration bubbles up again. I’ve been putting so much effort into mastering hand building—pushing myself to improve in this class, to step outside my comfort zone—but the progress has been agonizingly slow.
Professor Tanaka enters the room a few minutes later, moving with his usual air of quiet authority. He’s not the type to demand attention through volume or theatrics; instead, he commands the space with a calm, steady presence.
Unlike Professor Hall, my wheel-throwing instructor who thrives on critique and fast-paced energy, Tanaka is methodical and introspective. He has a way of observing your work that feels almost unnerving, as if he can see past the surface—every misstep, every flash of creativity, every bit of uncertainty that went into making it.
But he doesn’t criticize. He observes, reflects, and then offers something insightful, almost poetic.
As he moves through the room, I focus intently on my unsettling half-finished hand, trying not to fidget under the weight of the silence stretching between us. Finally, he stops at my table.
“Collins,” he says, his tone thoughtful. “I can see you’re pushing yourself here. There’s good progress.”
The praise makes me sit a little straighter, warmth flickering in my chest. It’s gratifying to have my effort noticed—to know that all the late nights and moments of doubt are amounting to something.
“Yeah, well . . . it’s been a slow crawl forward,” I admit, a wry smile tugging at my lips. “A painful shuffle, if you will.”
Tanaka frowns. “Progress is still progress. Don’t undermine it just because it’s not happening as fast as you’d like.”
He’s right—I’m always so quick to brush off my accomplishments, like they don’t count unless they happen perfectly and all at once. But the doubt still lingers, gnawing at the edges. “I don’t know ... It’s just—it looks a bit like a horror movie prop, doesn’t it?”
Tanaka gives a knowing smile. “The tension you’re trying to capture is there. Look at the lines, the way the fingers curve inward. You’re conveying something that’s unresolved, like there’s movement just beneath the surface.”
I blink at the sculpture, squinting to find what he’s talking about. All I’ve been seeing is a disaster, but his words make me pause. Maybe I was too close to it, too wrapped up in my frustrations to see the potential.
“I guess I was too busy focusing on what it wasn’t to see what it actually is,” I say quietly. “It’s hard not to fixate on what I can’t seem to get right.”
“That’s part of the process. But don’t lose sight of what’s working in your favor. You’ve got a strong foundation here, and if you keep at it, you’ll find the resolution you’re after.”
In other words, he wants me to know that I’m allowed to take my time. That I’m not failing just because I’m not there yet. What a novel concept.
“Okay, thank you.”
“So, how’s the fellowship coming along?” he asks.
“It’s ... a lot.” I swallow heavily. “But I’m getting there. I’m trying to balance everything: work, classes, and getting these pieces ready. Sometimes it feels like I’m drowning.”
“That’s expected. The pressure is part of the experience. But from what I’ve seen of your work, you’re more than capable. You’ve got the skill. Now it’s about showcasing it for the judges.”
“I hope so,” I murmur. “Thank you again for your letter of recommendation. That certainly takes some weight off.”
“Of course,” Tanaka says. “I meant what I wrote. And if you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask. Just trust your instincts, Collins.”
As he moves on to the next student, I sit back in my chair, his words settling into the space left by my doubts. I’ve been so caught up in trying to make everything perfect—to prove something to myself, to everyone else—that I forgot to give myself room to breathe.
Tanaka is right. Art isn’t about getting it right every time. It’s about pushing through the messy, uncomfortable parts and trusting that, somewhere along the way, you’ll stumble onto something real.
Something that’s yours.