Equal Energy
1415 Words
Monday morning felt unfamiliar in the gentlest way.
Amelia woke before her alarm.
For a few seconds, she lay still, confused by the absence of that usual heaviness in her chest — the dread that normally pressed down the moment consciousness returned. The ceiling above her looked the same. The faint hum of traffic outside was the same. But something inside her had shifted half a degree.
She didn’t feel excited.
She just didn’t feel crushed.
That was new enough.
She stretched slowly, wincing at the dull ache in her shoulders from two days hunched over canvas. The smell of dried acrylic still lingered faintly in her room. Her paintings leaned against the wall opposite her bed, catching thin strips of morning light.
For once, she didn’t check her phone immediately.
When she did, there was a message from Lola — sent late last night.
Alive?
Amelia stared at it for a moment.
A week ago, she would’ve responded instantly, apologised for being quiet, filled the space with explanation.
Now she typed something simple.
Yeah. Just had a quiet weekend.
She set her phone down after sending it.
Equal energy.
Downstairs, the house was already awake. She could hear the twins’ voices overlapping in the kitchen, Dad’s lower voice responding absentmindedly.
When she stepped in, dressed and bag slung over her shoulder, her dad looked up briefly.
“I’ll drop the boys this morning,” he said. “You can head straight to school.”
“Oh,” Amelia replied, surprised. “Okay.”
Leo grinned at her over a bowl of cereal. “We’re going with dad ’cause we forgot to finish the tree leaves.”
Amelia smiled faintly. “Have fun.”
She waited for something else — a question, maybe. A “How was your weekend?” But her dad was already glancing at his watch, mentally elsewhere.
That was fine.
Equal energy.
She left the house lighter without the usual responsibility of walking the twins to their school first. The air was crisp, the kind that made her lungs feel sharper when she inhaled.
As she approached the school gates, she spotted Lola immediately.
Lola was leaning against the fence, scrolling on her phone, one foot propped casually behind her. She looked up as Amelia neared.
“There you are,” Lola said, pushing off the fence. “I was starting to think you’d gone full hermit.”
Amelia huffed softly. “Tempting.”
They fell into step together, moving toward the main building as other students streamed around them.
“How was your weekend?” Lola asked.
“Quiet,” Amelia said. “I mostly painted.”
“Of course you did.” Lola nudged her shoulder lightly. “Portfolio slave.”
Amelia smiled. “Pretty much.”
“What’d you paint?”
“Stuff for the happiness prompt.”
“Ooo. Deep.” Lola made a face. “I did nothing productive. Drama rehearsal Saturday — which was actually really good — and then I just rotted yesterday.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It was,” Lola shrugged. “Sometimes doing nothing is elite.”
They walked through the corridor toward homeroom.
“And you didn’t text me once,” Lola added, tone teasing but edged with something Amelia couldn’t quite place.
“You didn’t text me either,” Amelia replied lightly.
Lola blinked, then laughed. “Fair.”
There was no tension. Not exactly.
But Amelia noticed the space where she would normally rush to reassure.
After homeroom they reached the junction where their first-period classes split in opposite directions.
“Drama first then maths to much energy needed for so early in the morning,” Lola groaned. “Pray for me.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Text me if anything dramatic happens.”
Amelia hesitated just a fraction of a second.
“Sure.”
They exchanged a quick half-hug before peeling off down separate hallways.
It felt… normal.
Mostly.
Maths was already half full when Amelia slipped into the classroom. She moved automatically toward her usual seat near the middle.
Ryan looked up as she approached.
“Morning,” he said, shifting his bag off the chair beside him. “Seat saved. You’re welcome.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Confident.”
“I like to plan ahead.”
She sat down, pulling out her notebook.
“You look suspiciously alive for a Monday,” he added.
“I slept,” she admitted.
“Ah. That explains it.”
There was an ease to sitting beside him that didn’t require performance. He didn’t demand energy. Didn’t push for constant conversation. The silence between comments wasn’t uncomfortable.
“How was your weekend?” he asked.
“Painting,” she replied.
His eyes lit slightly. “You finished that happiness thing?”
“Mostly.”
“You have photos?”
She hesitated, then unlocked her phone and scrolled through her camera roll. She’d taken pictures in different lighting yesterday afternoon.
She handed him the phone.
Ryan leaned closer, studying the screen seriously.
The first image showed the abstract wash of gold and green, light bleeding outward from an undefined centre.
“This is sick,” he said quietly.
Amelia blinked. “It’s just paint.”
“No, it’s not.” He zoomed in slightly. “It feels warm. But not fake warm. Like… earned warm.”
She didn’t expect that.
He swiped to the next photo — a close-up of textured strokes where darker shadows deepened the edges.
“You did this in two days?”
She shrugged. “I had time.”
Ryan handed her phone back gently.
“You’re really good, you know.”
The compliment sat awkwardly in her chest.
“Thanks.”
The teacher began explaining something about simultaneous equations, but Ryan leaned slightly closer again.
“Hey,” he said softly. “I meant what I said yesterday.”
“About what?”
“Coffee. Next weekend.”
Her stomach did a small, traitorous flip.
She kept her voice even. “I remember.”
“So?”
Amelia looked down at her open notebook.
Equal energy.
“I’ll think about it,” she said honestly.
Ryan didn’t look disappointed.
“Okay,” he nodded. “Thinking is allowed.”
He turned his attention back to the board, giving her space.
That, more than anything, made her chest loosen.
Second period was Art.
Amelia walked there alone.
The hallway noise felt louder without Lola beside her, but it wasn’t suffocating. She adjusted her bag strap and reminded herself she’d done this before.
She didn’t need someone attached to her to move through space.
Inside the art room, the smell of charcoal and turpentine wrapped around her like something familiar. Students were scattered at worktables, some still finishing pieces from last week.
Her teacher, Ms. Patel, clapped her hands lightly once everyone had settled.
“Alright, everyone. You’ve all started your first portfolio piece. Today, I’m giving you your second theme.”
A ripple of anticipation moved through the room.
Amelia straightened slightly.
Ms. Patel wrote a single word on the board.
Emotion.
Not happiness.
Not sadness.
Just emotion.
“Your task,” Ms. Patel continued, “is to choose one emotional state and explore it visually. Abstract or figurative — your choice. But I don’t want surface-level. I want depth. I want complexity. What does that emotion actually look like beneath the obvious?”
Amelia’s pulse quickened.
Emotion.
Her brain immediately supplied options.
Grief.
Loneliness.
Fear.
Hope.
Jealousy.
Love.
Anxiety.
The word lingered the longest.
She sat slowly, pulling her sketchbook closer.
What did anxiety look like?
Not the cartoon version — shaky lines and scribbles.
What did it feel like in her chest at two in the morning?
What colour was it when she was waiting for Lola to reply?
What shape was it when her dad brushed past her like she was background noise?
Her pencil moved without her fully deciding.
Tight lines. Layered. Overlapping. Pressing inward toward a centre that couldn’t breathe.
She paused.
Across the room, someone laughed loudly.
The sound felt far away.
For the first time, the idea of putting something real on canvas didn’t terrify her.
It felt… necessary.
As she shaded darker into the centre of the page, Amelia realised something quietly powerful:
Focusing on herself didn’t mean shutting everyone out.
It meant noticing what was already there.
And maybe — just maybe — learning how to exist without disappearing inside other people first.
- Writer
