Blocks weren’t walls. They were signals. Something inside you hitting the brakes when the rest of you was still pretending you know where you’re going.
That was me this week.
Every time I picked up a brush or pen, my hand stalled halfway. Every line felt dishonest. Every color felt off. Like I couldn’t make anything that didn’t feel like a performance.
Because the truth was, I didn’t know what I wanted to say anymore.
And for someone whose entire identity was built on motion, silence felt like exposure.
Sawyer textedme around ten with a photo of an old wooden sign he’d pulled off the back of a shuttered bookstore.
found this in the shop’s salvage bin. looks like something you’d give a second life to.
I stared at it longer than I should’ve. It was crooked, cracked, and perfect.
bring it over, I replied. I’ll see what I can do.
He showed up twenty minutes later with the sign and two iced teas. No agenda. No expectations. Just that quietly steady presence I was starting to crave more than I wanted to admit.
I laid the board flat across the porch railing, fingers skimming the faded lettering.
“You ever wonder if the things we save are just stand-ins for the parts of ourselves we’re not ready to deal with?” I asked.
Sawyer didn’t even blink. “All the time.”
I looked at him, brow lifted.
He smirked. “I work in salvage, Willa. My whole life is a metaphor.”
That made me laugh. Not big. But real.
He watched me for a moment longer, then said, “You want company while you work?”
I hesitated. “Yeah. I think I do.”
He sat beside me while I sanded the edges and filled the cracks with wood putty. We didn’t speak much. The air between us felt like something suspended—not tense, but weight-bearing. Like we both knew a conversation was coming, but neither of us wanted to rush it.
“Remember when I used to be allergic to silence?” I asked after a while.
Sawyer smiled. “I do.”
“I filled it with everything. Words. Jokes. Noise. Movement.”
“And now?”
“Now I kind of want to hear what it’s been trying to say all this time.”
He nodded, leaning back on his elbows. “That sounds like a woman who might finally be ready to stay.”
I didn’t answer. But I didn’t deflect either.
Which, for me, was kind of a miracle.
That night,after he left with the promise to return and see the finished piece, I stared at the board and realized I didn’t want to paint over the old lettering.
I wanted to keep it. Build on it. Layer something new without erasing what came before.
So I painted wildflowers over the corners. Let the faded words stay visible. Added lines of gold leaf where the cracks had been.
