The morning of the interview, my apartment was a silent battleground. The quiet, steely readiness I had cultivated the night before was being assaulted by a tidal wave of anxiety. My hands trembled as I buttoned the charcoal gray blazer. Every doubt I'd ever had about myself was screaming in my head. You're not good enough. You're boring. Your voice is too soft. You're going to freeze.
I looked at my reflection. The simple black dress and blazer—my chosen armor—looked back. The woman in the mirror looked pale and terrified, but she also looked like a professional. I took a deep breath, clutching my portfolio case like a shield. "Quiet confidence," I whispered to my reflection, repeating Helen Chapman's philosophy like a mantra.
The journey to Blackwood Press was a blur of anonymous faces on the subway. Every other woman in a blazer seemed more poised, more assertive, her destination more certain. I felt like an imposter, a child playing dress-up. I kept my head down, my gaze fixed on the clean, minimalist logo I had printed on the cover of my portfolio. It was my north star.
Blackwood Press was not located in a soaring glass skyscraper. It occupied three floors of a handsome, old brick building on a quiet, tree-lined street. The name was displayed in elegant, understated brass letters next to a heavy oak door. It felt less like a corporate headquarters and more like a library. The moment I stepped inside, my anxiety softened its grip.
The lobby was calm and filled with natural light. Bookshelves lined the walls, showcasing their beautiful, artful covers. The air smelled of paper and old wood. A young man at a simple wooden desk smiled politely and asked me to take a seat. It was the opposite of intimidating; it was welcoming. It felt like a place I understood.
A few minutes later, a woman emerged from a hallway. "Ms. Finch?"
Helen Chapman was exactly as I had imagined she would be. She was likely in her late fifties, with sharp, intelligent eyes behind a pair of stylish, dark-rimmed glasses. Her silver hair was cut in a chic, no-nonsense bob. She wore a simple black tunic and tailored trousers. She radiated an aura of calm, focused competence.
"Helen Chapman," she said, shaking my hand. Her grip was firm. "Thank you for coming in."
She led me to a conference room with a large window overlooking the street. The interview began with standard questions. My voice was shaky at first as I answered her queries about my background and my skills. She listened intently, her expression unreadable, which was somehow more unnerving than a frown.
Then, she said, "May I see your portfolio?"
This was my territory. As I opened the case and laid out my work, a subtle shift happened. When she pointed to the Community Library project, the last vestiges of my nervousness began to fade.
"This one," she said, her finger tapping the architectural rendering. "Tell me about it."
And I did. I wasn't a nervous job applicant anymore; I was a designer discussing my work. I talked about how I'd designed the flow of the space to encourage both quiet study and community interaction. I explained my choice of natural materials to create a sense of warmth and sanctuary. I pointed out how I used typography in the signage—a classic serif font—to evoke the timeless feeling of a traditional library, but used a modern, minimalist layout to keep it fresh.
I spoke with a passion I thought I had lost. Helen didn't interrupt. She just listened, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. When I finished, she nodded slowly.
"You understand that space isn't just about what you put in it," she said, her voice thoughtful. "It's about the feeling you create in the voids. Many young designers don't grasp that."
It was the highest form of praise she could have given me. She understood.
She then looked up at me, her gaze direct. "Your resume shows a lot of collaborative projects. Design by committee can be difficult. How do you handle creative disagreements?"
The question hung in the air, a direct probe at the heart of my past. The ghost of Sera and our "perfect team" flickered in my mind. The old me would have mumbled something about compromise. But the woman who designed the library, the woman Helen was speaking to, had a different answer.
"I think the best idea should always win, regardless of who it comes from," I said, my voice steady. "But an idea is only as good as the logic behind it. If there's a disagreement, I try to remove ego from the equation and defend my choices based on the project's goals. Why does this color palette serve the brand better? Why does this layout improve the user experience? If someone else's logic is stronger, then their idea is better, and the project is better for it. It's about serving the work, not my own vision."
Helen held my gaze for a long moment. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched the corners of her lips. "A good answer," she said.
The rest of the interview was a calm discussion. When it was over, she stood and shook my hand again. "It was a pleasure to speak with you, Ms. Finch. We have a few more candidates to see this week. We will be in touch."
I walked out of the quiet, beautiful building and back into the bustling city. The sun was bright, and I had to shield my eyes. I didn't know if I had the job. The uncertainty was still there. But as I walked towards the subway, a feeling I hadn't experienced in years settled over me.
It was pride.
I hadn't pretended to be someone else. I hadn't filled the room with loud, bubbly energy. I had been quiet. I had been thoughtful. I had been myself. And I had been seen.
Whatever happened next, I had passed my own test. For the first time in a very long time, that felt like enough.