Ink, Water, and a Little Bit of Bravery

I ran my fingers along the edge of the thick watercolour paper, feeling the texture beneath my touch. It was still slightly damp from the last wash of colour, but I couldn’t wait any longer. The colours had settled, and I needed to see how it looked in the frame.

“This is the one,” I murmured to myself, lifting the painting carefully, mindful not to smudge anything. The blend of ochre and deep green had bled into one another in a way I hadn’t planned but loved. It was like watching the landscape shift in front of me, forming something unexpected but beautiful.

“You’re still at it?”

I looked up to see my sister, Angie, leaning against the doorway, her arms crossed. She had that familiar half-smile that meant she was teasing but also a little impressed.

“I just finished,” I said, brushing a stray hair from my face. “What do you think?”

She stepped into the room, tilting her head as she examined the piece. “It looks like something you’d see in one of those fancy little galleries downtown.”

I scoffed. “Hardly.”

Angie nudged my shoulder with hers. “No, I mean it. It has that moody, effortless look. Like you weren’t trying too hard, but it still turned out perfect.”

I exhaled, my shoulders relaxing. “That’s actually a huge compliment.”

She grinned. “I know.”

I turned back to the painting and placed it against the stack of finished pieces on my desk. Four in total. Each one in different tones—warm amber, cool greens, deep reds, and misty blues. They belonged together, each telling a different part of the same quiet story. I had spent days layering colour, pulling pigment across wet surfaces, waiting for the paper to absorb just enough before adding another stroke.

Angie ran her fingers over the edge of one, careful not to touch the surface. “What’s next? Are you going to submit these somewhere?”

I hesitated. “I was thinking of putting them in the shop.”

Her eyes lit up. “Finally! About time you let people see your work instead of hoarding it in here.”

“It’s not hoarding,” I muttered, knowing full well that’s exactly what I had been doing. I had told myself I was just experimenting, just learning. But truthfully, I had been afraid to put them out there.

Angie flopped onto my bed. “What’s stopping you?”

I sighed, tracing the edge of my desk. “I guess I just... don’t know if they’re good enough.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Says who?”

I didn’t have an answer for that.

“Listen, I get it,” she continued. “Putting your work out there feels like you’re exposing a little piece of yourself. But I’ve seen you spend hours on these, and they deserve to be seen. Someone out there will love them.”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “What if no one buys them?”

Angie shrugged. “Then they don’t. But what if they do?”

I sat with that for a moment. I had spent so much time worrying about failing that I hadn’t considered the other possibility—that someone might actually want my work. That they might hang one of these in their home, that they might look at the brushstrokes and feel something.

The thought sent a thrill through me.

I reached for my phone and pulled up the listing page for my online shop. The cursor blinked at me, waiting. Angie rolled onto her stomach, watching me with expectation.

“Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s do it.”

Angie clapped her hands together. “That’s the spirit.”

I took photos of each piece, adjusting the lighting just right, making sure the details showed—the gentle bleed of colour, the edges where pigment had dried unpredictably, the way each one had its own rhythm. I wrote out descriptions, hesitating over my words before settling on something that felt like me. Honest. Simple.

And then, with a final deep breath, I hit publish.

Angie let out a victorious cheer. “You did it!”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. It wasn’t a grand moment, not one that would change the world, but it felt significant in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

I turned to my sister, shaking my head with a small smile. “Now we wait.”

She grinned. “Now we celebrate.”

And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had done something that mattered.