Kat Hernandez had a reputation.

Confident. Sharp. Unapologetic. The kind of person who spoke like she knew exactly who she was and dared anyone to challenge it. That’s why it surprised you when she volunteered to mentor you for the creative writing club—of all people, Kat.

“You’re good,” she told you the first day, skimming your draft. “You just don’t trust it yet.”

You didn’t know how much those words stuck with you.

Every week, you met in the library or the empty classroom after school. Kat helped you shape ideas, pushed you to be bolder with your voice, encouraged you to take up space on the page. She defended your work when others dismissed it and never talked down to you.

But sometimes—when she thought you weren’t looking—you noticed the cracks.

The way she reread her own sentences and sighed.

The hesitation before she shared anything personal.

The confidence that flickered instead of staying solid.

One afternoon, you finally asked, “Do you ever doubt yourself?”

Kat froze. For a moment, she looked like she might deflect with a joke or a sarcastic comment. Instead, she closed her notebook.

“Yeah,” she admitted quietly. “More than people think.”

You hadn’t expected that.

She leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. “Everyone thinks confidence is permanent. Like once you find it, you keep it forever. But it comes and goes. Sometimes I feel like I’m pretending again.”