Some people need the world to be loud to feel alive.
I just need a pencil, a lump of clay, or a camera in my hands.
Mornings are my quiet time. I always wake up before anyone else, not because I have to, but because the stillness helps me breathe. There's something special about the way the light slips into a room just after sunrise—it hits differently, softer, like it knows it's not supposed to wake anyone yet. That's when I like to sketch. No noise, no distractions, just the sound of my pencil scratching across the page and the occasional creak of the old house.
I had been working on a rough drawing of a hand—Stella's hand, actually. I'd seen her gesture something dramatic the other day, and it stuck in my head. It's funny what moments stay with you. I keep trying to capture them in all the ways I know how. If I'm not drawing them, I'm photographing them. If I'm not photographing them, I'm molding them out of clay.
When I finally made my way to the clubhouse, the sun had fully risen and so had the energy. I paused at the door for a second, hearing laughter spill out. It was the kind of sound that made my chest feel warm. Inside, everything was exactly as it should be—Stephanie and Stella were debating something in that playful way that always makes people think they're arguing, but we all know better. Summer was pacing, her ponytail bouncing with every step as she scrolled through something on her phone. And Rudy, of course, was crouched in the corner again, this time playing with a squirrel that had wandered in through the open window.
Andrea was humming something—Rihanna, I think—as she stirred a bowl in the kitchen, wearing an apron none of us knew she owned until recently. The smell of something sweet floated through the air. I'd just gotten there and already felt like I'd never left.
I took my camera out of my bag and started snapping photos, trying to catch the movement of the moment before it passed. A flour-smudged Andrea
making a peace sign. Rudy laughing when the squirrel tried to climb her knee. Stephanie tossing popcorn into her mouth and missing entirely. Click, click, click. Each one a piece of our story.
Eventually, I sat down by the window, sketchbook in my lap. I wasn't working on anything specific—just doodling, shaping lines until they started to resemble something real. I think it's the little things that make life beautiful: the tilt of a head, the arch of a smile, the way the sun hits the floorboards just right. That's what I'm always chasing with my art.
As the sun began to set, the golden hour light poured into the clubhouse, bathing everything in that warm, glowing hue I wish I could bottle. I snapped one last photo—everyone sprawled out, full of food and laughter, the kind of peace that only comes after a day well spent. That picture would go up on our wall, alongside all the others. Our ever-growing gallery of memories.
The clubhouse wasn't just a place. It was history. We found it when we were still in middle school—an old abandoned house with creaky floors and peeling wallpaper. But where most people saw a mess, we saw possibility. Over time, we turned it into something that reflected us. Not perfect, not polished, but real. A place for our chaos, our creativity, our comfort.
I leaned back, letting the last bits of sunlight wash over me, my sketchbook resting on my knees. The smell of clay still lingered faintly on my hands from a project I'd finished earlier that week. I made a mental note to bring it tomorrow so the girls could see.
This was home. Not the building—but the people in it.
I'm Astrid. The one who sees the world through lines and shadows, who turns silence into color and light into memory. I don't say much, but I notice everything. And with them—my girls, my family—I don't have to say a word to be understood.
And that's all I've ever needed.