14
JULES
T he late afternoon sun poured through the towering windows of Harmony Concert Hall’s modest meeting room, its golden beams spilling across the space yet doing little to dissolve the icy tension that clung to us like a stubborn mist. I stood at the whiteboard, a marker poised in one hand while the other gripped my clipboard as if it were a lifeline in a turbulent sea. The unresolved tension from yesterday’s Playhouse event still hovered at the peripheries of my thoughts, unspoken yet profoundly present, like a gathering storm threatening an imminent downpour.
Elliot sat across the table, every inch his posture exuding rigidity, his laptop aglow and papers arrayed with the meticulous order of a crafted catalogue. He remained detached, his eyes fixed on a neatly printed timeline rather than meeting mine, igniting within me a roar of frustration that begged for an outburst. For a moment, the urge to scream, or even hurl the marker in his direction, was overwhelming. Instead, I distilled that raw emotion into the fervor of my pitch.
“This isn’t just another event!” I declared, my voice slicing sharply through the thick silence before I even recognized its intensity. My hand flew towards the whiteboard, punctuating my words with wild gestures that animated a chaotic mural of sketches, notes, and arrows, each line colliding and intermingling with the next. The vivid hues of neon pink, electric blue, and lime green burst from my markers, a stark rebellion against the room’s sterile, bland professionalism. It was as if my very ideas had erupted from my mind, colliding on the board in an unrestrained flurry of creative passion, messy, vibrant, and defiantly alive.
“This is about immersing people in queer history,” I continued, speaking so rapidly that the words tumbled out in a rush, barely pausing to form coherent sentences. “Not merely reading or hearing it, but feeling it, letting it seep into their bones.” I turned to face Elliot, waving the marker like a conductor’s baton as I painted a dynamic scene with my words. “Imagine interactive displays, touchscreens that aren’t just glass and pixels, but actual portals that pull you into the stories. Audio snippets playing with real voices, stirring interviews, layered soundscapes, even background music that morphs with every section. And live storytelling sessions! And theatrical performances! We can interlace them into a living tapestry so that it’s not a static list of events but a breathtaking experience, dynamic, immersive, and utterly unforgettable!”
With a dramatic pivot back to the whiteboard, I pointed emphatically at a scribbled circle encircled by a flurry of frantic notes. “Right here,” I said, “this spot could be the transition from narrative to performance, imagine the magic of theatrical storytelling enhanced with light projections. Or, oh my God, what if we dared to include holograms? Too far-fetched?” I spun back toward Elliot, barely pausing for a breath. “Okay, scratch the holograms, but think big, bold, unrestrained! People need to leave this with goosebumps, as if they’ve been jolted awake into a new reality.”
In my fervor, the marker slipped from my grasp and clattered against the table, but I barely missed a beat. I quickly scavenged another from the chaotic cluster on the desk and circled a section of the board with a flourish. “This part? It could serve as the timeline, but not in the tedious way you’re used to, imagine it moving, fluid as you swipe along, coming to vibrant life! Pictures, videos, quotes, all intermingled to show history not as static, but as living, breathing, and utterly in-your-face.”
Breathless, I turned back to Elliot, my heart pounding as I searched his stoic face for even the faintest reaction. My grip on the marker was desperate, as if it anchored me to a reality that was rapidly blurring. “Do you see it?” I pleaded. “This is extraordinary. This is the future!”
I paused, the charged silence hanging between us until it felt unbearable. “Well?” I prodded, the word slicing sharply into the air.
At last, Elliot glanced up. His face was a mask of unreadable calculation as he responded in a voice as even and measured as ever. “It’s ambitious,” he said calmly, “but have you fully considered the logistics? Those interactive displays alone? They could swamp our budget and throw off the entire timeline.”
His measured tone grated on me, its pragmatism a cold slap against my flushed excitement. “We’ll figure it out,” I retorted dismissively with a wave of the marker. “This isn’t about ticking boxes on a project plan, it’s about making a monumental impact, Elliot.”
Elliot leaned back slightly, his shoulders still drawn taut. “Impact doesn’t materialize if it’s executed poorly,” he countered. “If we overreach and fail to deliver, the entire message is lost. Also, you aren’t working with some big New York non-profit with tens of thousands of dollars to make this happen. This is a high school afterschool club with no funding from the district. These kids raise money with bake sales and car washes.”
His words struck me like a well-aimed dart, a precise, painful critique. I let out a short, bitter laugh devoid of humor. “Must everything be about potential pitfalls with you?” I snapped, turning fully to confront him. “God forbid we actually take a risk!”
His jaw tensed, a flicker of irritation darkening his eyes. “It’s not about what might go wrong,” he said in a firmer tone, “it’s about ensuring that what we do actually makes the impact you’re chasing. You can’t ignite inspiration with a half-baked idea on a $50,000.00 budget!”
Stepping closer, the marker still clutched tightly in my hand, I replied heatedly, “This isn’t half-baked, it’s a vision, a blueprint for something extraordinary. But sure, if you prefer to retreat into your safe, sterilized PowerPoint, then by all means, do it.”
Abruptly, he rose from his seat, the screech of his chair scraping the floor and cutting through the charged atmosphere like a blade. “This isn’t about dialing it down,” he said sharply, his voice taut and cutting. “It’s about respecting the realm of possibility. You can’t just scatter a thousand ideas onto a wall and hope one sticks.”
“And you can’t see beyond your damn checklist!” I fired back, words lashing out like cracks of lightning. My voice climbed relentlessly, the intensity building like a gathering storm. “You’re so obsessed with dodging failure that you’re choking the life out of creativity, eclipsing the fire needed to inspire.”
Elliot’s voice rose in response, his tone crisp as his hand sliced the air between us, as if carving a physical gap. “It’s not stifling creativity to want this to actually work,” he retorted. “Not every wild idea you spew is going to land, Jules.”
“Oh, so now they’re just wild ideas ?” I shot back, stepping even closer, each word dripping with sarcastic disdain. “Maybe you’re too frightened to dream bigger. Perhaps the terror of failure has chained you to a safe and boring path instead of daring to create something breathtaking!”
“Safe and boring? At least I’m not setting us up for an inevitable crash and burn!” he countered, his voice echoing off the walls as he jabbed a finger at the vibrant whiteboard. “You really believe that by slapping together a hundred disparate concepts, you create vision? It’s chaos, Jules, it’s a shambles.”
“It’s called ambition!” I roared, sweeping my hand at the explosion of colors and chaos on the board. “It’s having an unyielding passion for something! But fine, let’s reduce it to a bland, sanitized presentation and play it safe.”
“You think I don’t care?” he shot back, his voice slicing through the thick air. “Just because I don’t scream every few seconds doesn’t mean I’m not equally invested.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” I lashed out, bitterness spilling over before I could contain it.
With his jaw set and a frustrated hand combing through his hair with visible aggression, Elliot spat, “You don’t get to measure my investment by comparing it to your theatrics.”
“And you don’t have the right to silence me simply because my approach makes you uneasy,” I countered as I stepped forward once more, the space between us crackling with unresolved tension. “You’re so entrenched in what you deem ‘possible’ that you’re blind to what could truly be.”
“And you’re so enraptured by your idealism that reality eludes you,” he replied coldly, each word sharper than the last. “Not everything flourishes in your beautifully orchestrated chaos.”
The word “chaos” fell over me like a heavy blow. I froze, chest heaving, as I stared hard at him. “Chaos?” I repeated quietly, yet with venom. “Is that all you see? Just... noise?”
“You said it yourself, you thrive on it,” he countered, his tone transitioning into something distant and almost unrecognizable. “But not everyone can ride your tumultuous wave, Jules. Not everyone can keep up.”
“Keep up?” I laughed bitterly, the sound hollow and humorless. “You mean obediently follow your color-coded, meticulously structured plans? Newsflash, Elliot: you can’t orchestrate magic through a checklist.”
“And you can’t depend on disorder to fabricate it!” he shot back, frustration spilling over in his increasingly raised voice.
“God, why do I even bother?” I muttered, more to myself than to him, though he caught every syllable.
“What is that supposed to mean?” he demanded, stepping even closer, his expression taut with suppressed tension.
“It means I’m done fighting for something you clearly don’t believe in,” I snapped, my voice cracking just a little as I gripped my bag with trembling hands. “If you want your prim, sanitized version of this event, then by all means, have at it.”
“Jules…” he began, and I cut him off with a sharp, dismissive gesture.
“Don’t,” I said, my tone icy and irrevocable. “Just don’t.”
I turned and strode to the door, every step laden with purpose and a seething tightness along my jaw as I fought back tears and the heat that threatened to spill over. Behind me, I heard him start to speak, only to falter as silence swallowed his words whole. The door slammed shut, its sound reverberating in the room, leaving him isolated in the oppressive glare of the afternoon sun.
I pivoted on my heel, my boots clicking emphatically against the polished floor, each step echoing as if marking a final farewell. The air between us seemed as fragile as spun glass, one slightest touch would shatter it into oblivion. My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag as I reached the door once more, forcing it open with more urgency than necessary. The hinges groaned in protest before the door swung shut behind me, its heavy thud resonating in the quiescent hallway like the final gavel of a court.
The hallway was cloaked in an almost mocking stillness. Every breath I took seemed to carry the weight of the heated words that had just been hurled between us. I quickened my pace, my vision narrowing as I focused on the vibrant exit sign glowing steadfastly at the corridor’s end. Overhead, the fluorescent lights hummed a faint, monotonous tune, a stark contrast to the emotional tempest I had just escaped. My legs forced me onward, even as my mind pleaded to turn back, to cry out, to undo the damage, but I heeded no such summons.
Stepping outside, the world engulfed me. The late afternoon sun was glaringly bright, the sky a piercing blue, and the cacophony of honking traffic mixed with the vibrant chatter of passersby was almost overwhelming. It was as if the universe, in all its vast indifferent splendor, had moved on, unaware of the small implosion that had just shattered that stifling room. The heaviness in my chest persisted, the sting of his words settling over me like an inescapable weight.
I wandered without destination until my feet led me toward Rivermere Creek. The soothing sound of water cascading gently over smooth rocks reached my ears before I could even see it, a lullaby of nature inviting me to pause and heal. Leaning against the weathered railing of a narrow footbridge, I allowed my fingers to curl tightly around the cool metal, gazing downward at the shimmering creek beneath. In the dying light of day, the water rippled and danced in the golden hue of the setting sun, each chaotic movement imbued with an unforeseen purpose.
A shaky breath escaped me, too large for my lungs to contain. My jaw burned as the bitter argument replayed in endless loops, every cutting remark sharp and echoing in the silence that followed. His voice, colder and more detached than ever, rang in my ears, melding painfully with my own raw, jagged retorts, leaving me exposed and vulnerable in ways I wished I could forget.
Why did I even believe this vision could work? The relentless question churned in my mind. Why did I think we could actually succeed together?
With my eyes squeezed shut, I tried to banish the thought, but it clung stubbornly. My grip on the railing tightened until my knuckles throbbed with pain. Below, the creek paid no heed to my spiraling doubts, its waters flowed steadily, a compelling insistence on progress and calm that contrasted starkly with the turbulent storm raging within me.
In a flash of thought, I envisioned Elliot back in the sterile meeting room: his papers and timelines arranged methodically, his face set in that familiar, guarded expression as if protecting a well of hidden frustrations. The memory twisted my stomach into knots. For a fleeting moment, I wanted to believe that he, too, felt the acute sting of our tug-of-war, an internal battle where words cut both ways. Yet another, harsher part of me whispered that perhaps he never truly cared, that the very heart of his passion remained locked behind his orderly facade. And at what point did that argument become less about the Pride event and more about ‘us’?”