When I get inside, the first thing I do is turn off the lights, kick off my shoes, and drop my bag by the door. Julia sent a message saying she's out with Liam and will probably be home before midnight.
My sketchbook slips halfway out, and for a second I just stare at it—half-tempted to pretend my workload isn't real. But it is. I've got three commissions due this week, two more pending approval, and a deadline for a sculpture assignment that's creeping up fast.
I sit at my desk and open my laptop, the glow of the screen casting long shadows across my small room. My inbox is cluttered with client messages—notes about color changes, composition tweaks, requests for prints. It's exhausting. I love art, but lately, it feels like I'm bleeding pieces of myself just to keep up
