Pocahontas sat alone beneath the tall oak by the campus greenhouse, earbuds in, though no music played. She liked the illusion of being unreachable. The late afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, dappled across the pages of her notebook—half sketchbook, half journal. Today’s entry was more drawing than words: a river winding around a hill, a girl standing at its edge.
She sighed.
The day had been... loud. Too many people talking over each other in class, too much plastic waste left behind on the lawn, too many questions from professors who didn’t listen to the answers.
Everyone seemed so sure of what they wanted.
Pocahontas wasn’t.
She knew what she felt—the pull of the earth beneath her feet, the way her heart beat faster when she read about reforestation or tribal land sovereignty. But how did that translate into something she could be? A title? A job? A future?
She hated the pressure to decide.
A gust of wind scattered her notes. She scrambled to gather them, chasing one that floated near a pair of boots.
“Need a hand?” came a voice—warm, with a hint of teasing.
She looked up. It was someone from her intro sustainability class. He always sat near the back, mature and calm.
She gave a soft smile. “Maybe just a finger.”
He crouched, handed her the page.
Their eyes met. For a moment, the chaos of the day melted.
She tucked the paper into her journal. “Thanks.”
“No problem. You draw?”
Pocahontas noded, closing the cover. “From time to time, yes.”
He tilted his head, curious, not dismissive.
And for the first time all day, she felt like maybe—just maybe—someone saw her.
Not the grades. Not the heritage. Not the 'nature girl' stereotype.
Just her.