Val was in the storage room, crouched on the floor with a box of half-dried acrylics balanced on her knees, when Mrs. Hart knocked lightly on the doorframe. The room smelled faintly of paint and dust, that comforting, familiar mix that had begun to feel like home. Somewhere down the hall, music thudded unevenly through a speaker that had seen better days, and a child's laughter rang out, sharp and unselfconscious.
"Do you have a minute?" Mrs. Hart asked.
Val looked up, brushing paint flecks from her fingers. "Yeah. Of course."
They went into the small office, the one with the chipped desk and the corkboard cluttered with flyers for events past and hopeful ones yet to come. The late afternoon light slanted across the floor, catching in the stale air. Mrs. Hart closed the door, not in a secretive way, just to quiet the noise outside.
"I won't keep you long," she said, folding her hands. "I wanted to talk to you about the work you've been doing here."
Val felt a familiar tightening in her chest, an old reflex she hadn't fully unlearned yet. Praise still made her wary, as if it were the prelude to disappointment.
"You've transformed the workshops," Mrs. Hart continued. "Attendance is up. Engagement is up. People are staying. They're bringing friends. And the showcase last month..."
Val swallowed.
"That brought in more visitors than we've seen in years," Mrs. Hart finished. "Including potential donors."
She paused, letting that land.
"We want to offer you a full-time position here."
The words hung in the air between them, strangely solid.
"Full-time?" Val echoed. Her voice sounded distant to her own ears.
"Yes," Mrs. Hart said gently. "Paid. Stable. You'd still be running the art and performance workshops, but you'd also be organising events, more showcases, outreach programs, collaborations. Helping us apply for funding, build something with longevity."
Longevity.
Val's mind raced ahead before she could stop it. Schedules. Budgets. Emails. Meetings. The weight of responsibility pressed down, not crushing, but undeniable.
"You don't need to answer today," Mrs. Hart added. "But I wanted you to know we can see so much potential. And we want to invest in what you're building here."
Val nodded, because nodding was something she was able to do when emotions piled up faster than words.
"Thank you," she said. It felt inadequate, but sincere.
When she left the office, the centre felt altered, not physically, but perceptually, like she'd stepped half an inch to the left of her own life. The same peeling paint on the walls. The same crooked posters. But threaded through it all was the sudden, quiet knowledge that she could shape this place. That her presence mattered here in a way that was measurable, tangible.
She finished tidying the art room on autopilot. Stacked brushes. Wiped tables. Smiled at the kids as they filed out, their hands stained with colour, their faces bright with the unfiltered joy of having made something.
Outside, the evening air was cool against her skin. The sky was already deepening toward indigo, that soft, in-between colour that always made her feel like the world was holding its breath.
Elliot was waiting near the gate, like he often did, leaning against the fence with his hands in his pockets. He looked up when he saw her, his face easing into a smile that was warm without being demanding.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
They fell into step beside each other, her arm looped through his. The walk home had become one of her favourite parts of the day, not because anything dramatic happened, but because nothing had to. It was a space where she could exist without performing.
"How was your day?" he asked.
"Good," she said. It was true. It just wasn't all of it.
She felt the news pressing against her ribs, heavy and bright at the same time, but she didn't let it out yet. Not because she was afraid of his reaction, she wasn't, but because she needed to hear it clearly in her own head first. She wanted the decision to be hers before it belonged to anyone else.
They talked about small things. A neighbour's cat that had started following Elliot down to the street. A crack in the pavement Val always forgot to step over. The way the air smelled like rain even though the forecast promised clear skies.
At home, they cooked together in companionable silence. Elliot chopped vegetables while Val stirred a pot on the stove, the familiar domestic choreography soothing her nerves. He brushed past her once, kissed her temple without ceremony, and went back to what he was doing.
The affection grounded her, but it didn't answer the questions buzzing in her head.
After dinner, she excused herself and went to the bedroom, closing the door gently behind her. She sat cross-legged on the bed, her notebook in her lap, pen poised but unmoving.
Her heart was beating faster than usual.
I'm scared, she wrote finally.
Not because I can't do it. Because I want it.
She paused, surprised by her own honesty.
For so long, fear had been about inadequacy. About not measuring up. This fear was different. It was the fear of stepping into something real, something that would ask things of her and expect her to show up fully.
Full-time means a lot of responsibility, she continued.
It means people depending on me. It means taking charge.
She thought about meetings where she'd have to speak up. About plans that would only exist if she made them exist. About failure, not as an abstract concept, but as something with consequences.
Her pen hovered.
I'm afraid of how much time it will take, she wrote next.
Of what will happen when I have less of it.
She thought of evenings like this. Walks home. Shared meals. Quiet moments on the sofa. Time with Elliot that felt expansive precisely because it wasn't squeezed between obligations.
I don't want to lose that, she admitted.
The words sat heavy on the page. She let herself feel the sadness of it, the grief for how much her life that might change.
Then, slowly, she wrote:
But I don't want to stay small.
She closed her eyes, breathing through the tightness in her chest.
Love isn't supposed to be a hiding place, she continued.
It's something you bring your whole self into. Not just the part that fits neatly.
She thought of the kids at the centre. Of the tentative way some of them had stepped into the room on their first day, with their shoulders hunched, eyes guarded. Of how, weeks later, they'd stood taller, louder, freer.
She thought of the showcase. Of the shaking hands backstage. Of the applause, not thunderous, but real. Earned.
If I say no because I'm afraid, she wrote, I stay small.
She closed the notebook and sat there for a moment, her hands resting on the cover, letting the words settle.
When she went back into the living room, Elliot looked up from the sofa.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, and this time, the word felt anchored.
Later, when they went to bed, she told him.
"They offered me a full-time position at the centre."
He turned toward her immediately, his eyes bright. "Val! That's incredible."
She watched his reaction carefully, noticing how it warmed her without tipping her balance. Not relief. Not rescue. Just shared happiness.
"It's a lot," she said. "More responsibility. More hours."
He nodded, thoughtful. "Yeah. But it sounds like something you could definitely do."
She smiled softly. "I think so too."
There was a pause. Not uncomfortable, just space.
"I'm nervous," she admitted quietly.
"That makes sense," he said. He didn't minimise. Didn't rush to fix it.
"I'm worried about not having time for us," she added.
He reached for her hand, squeezing gently. "We'll figure it out."
She appreciated the we, but what steadied her was the knowledge that even if they had to adjust, she wasn't choosing between him and herself. She was choosing herself with him in her life, not instead of him.
"I'm going to say yes," she said.
The words felt solid. Grounded. Not rushed.
"I'm really proud of you," Elliot said.
She let herself take that in, but it wasn't the thing holding her up. The pride she felt inside herself was quieter, steadier, harder to shake.
The next morning, she emailed Mrs. Hart before doubt could creep back in.
I'd love to accept.
Her hands trembled slightly as she hit send. Then she exhaled, a long breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.
She opened her notebook once again.
This is me choosing my life, she wrote.
Not because someone saved me. Because I'm ready to step forward.
She closed the notebook, picked up her bag, and stepped out into the day nervous, capable, ready.