Caighley

“What I wouldn’t give to have him look at me the way he looked at Will. Like I’m worth something. Like I’m an Artist-damned human being.”
He tugs his gloves off one finger at a time. Pursing his lips, he holds his hands up so I can see the cracked cuticles.
“They hate that I’m like this,” he says, his voice so quiet I have to lean in to hear him. “I try so hard to be the man who has it all together, who doesn’t worry, who’s solid as stone. And yet it’s never enough for them. Mother’s always looking for new treatments, a cure-all that would make me calm and collected like my brother, as though she cannot be happy with me as I am.”
I grasp his hands and pull them down to his knees so I can meet his eyes. “You are not weak because you are not stone. In fact, I would say you’re stronger because you feel things so acutely. The internal battles you fight every day—you’ve conquered far more than you give yourself credit for. Despite what they’ve made you believe, you do not need to apologize for the things that make you different. And you shouldn’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“But I don’t do crowds.”
“Why?” I search his face, desperate to understand, desperate to see.
“Because that’s how it is.”
“But—”
“No. Don’t do that.” His voice hardens.
I take a step back. “Do what?”
“Stand there and tell me that if I just tried, if I just ‘put myself out there,’ I could get over it.” Though he’s still speaking barely above a whisper, it feels as though he’s shouting, and I take a step back. “Have you ever felt like your heart was about to beat itself to death? Like your lungs were seizing up? It’s not a pleasant experience. Your vision goes splotchy, and your body feels like it’s shredding itself inside. Hot sweats. Dry mouth. It feels like dying, and I’m sorry, but I don’t have to force myself to go through that because you think I should.” He pauses to take a slow breath and turns away. “The more I try to force myself to be something I’m not, the worse the attacks get. So no. I’m not going.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“Despite what my mother thinks, I’m not totally inept,” August says quietly. “Let me help you.”
― Jessica S. Olson, A Forgery of Roses

“Before you, music was just music. But not anymore. Where everything was dull and mute before, you've brought brightness and life. I don't want to lose that.' He grasps my arms and pulls me around to face him. 'Please don't go to that ball, Isda.”
― Jessica S. Olson, Sing Me Forgotten