Almost Giving Up

The little clay bird sat on my desk, its wings a bit lopsided, its beak a tad too big. I’d spent hours shaping it, smoothing the clay, trying to get it just right. It was supposed to be a robin, like the ones that sang outside Rhyme’s window every morning. But looking at it now, it just looked… wobbly. Not special enough. Not *Tk* enough for Rhyme. My stomach did a nervous flip-flop. What if Rhyme didn't like it? What if it just looked like a lumpy blob? I sighed, picking it up. The clay felt cool and smooth against my fingertips, but it didn't bring me the joy it had when I was first imagining it. It felt like a failure, a clumsy attempt at something beautiful.

I imagined Rhyme’s gentle eyes looking at it, and a wave of panic washed over me. Rhyme was so artistic, so good at making everything look effortless and lovely. Their drawings, their little poems, even the way they arranged flowers in a vase – it was all so perfect. My lopsided bird just didn’t measure up. I pushed it to the side, feeling a familiar flush creep up my neck. Maybe I should just keep it hidden. Maybe I should forget the whole thing. The thought was like a heavy stone in my chest. It would be so much easier if I didn’t have to worry about Rhyme’s reaction. But then I remembered Rhyme’s smile, the way their eyes crinkled at the corners when they were happy, and my heart ached at the idea of not sharing this with them. Still, doubt gnawed at me. It wasn't good enough. It wasn't *me* enough.

Meanwhile, Rhyme was pacing their bedroom, a crumpled map of Willow Creek Park spread out on their floor. The spot they’d picked, a little clearing by the whispering willows, felt perfect in their mind. They’d pictured it so clearly: the dappled sunlight, the gentle rustle of leaves, the feeling of peace. They’d even imagined bringing a basket of Tk’s favorite blueberry muffins. But now, looking at the map, it just felt… ordinary. “A clearing by some trees?” they muttered to themselves, tracing the path with a finger. “That’s it?” It felt so small, so insignificant compared to the grand gestures they’d seen in movies or read about in books. What if Tk expected something more exciting, something grander?