It wasn’t an instant fix. Envy doesn’t vanish with one apology or one orange. But something shifted. Oxuanna started showing up to art club. She stopped comparing her drafts to Gia’s finished pieces. And Gia, in turn, learned that her light could illuminate, not blind—if she was careful to look for the people standing just outside its warmth.
Oxuanna’s throat tightened. “I didn’t think you’d care.”
Gia Love, who painted hope. Oxuanna, who learned to see it.
Instead, she stood there, staring at the mural—at the flowers Gia had painted with such care, each petal distinct. And for the first time, Oxuanna saw not Gia’s luck, but Gia’s labor. The hours. The patience. The love.