The clinking of silverware and the murmur of conversation filled the air as Sarah surveyed the room. The gallery opening was a resounding success. Her paintings were selling, the critics were raving, and she was the center of attention. She had finally achieved her dream. She had earned it.
Her phone buzzed, and she saw it was from Maya, a fellow art student from years ago. A smile stretched across her face, excited to see the recognition for her work. “Hey, remember that art exhibition we did for college?” Maya's text read.
Sarah’s smile faltered. Yes, she remembered. The cramped space, the indifferent audience, the disappointment she had felt. "Of course," she replied.
“I was just thinking about how you'd helped me hang all my paintings and how you'd helped me get the exposure. You were so supportive, especially since you were having your own showcase at the time."
Sarah felt a sharp stab of something she didn't want to admit. “Maya, I'm sure you're getting things mixed up. I was busy working on my own art at the time. You know how competitive art school is." She remembered the struggle, the constant hustle, the need to stand out. It was all so worth it.
Maya's reply was swift. "Yeah, I remember. I'm just glad you helped me with the exhibition when you were having your own. I thought you were so kind."
Sarah's gaze drifted around the room. Her paintings, vibrant and alive, hung on the walls. She was thriving, a successful artist. "Anyway, I need to get back to my guests," she replied, and ended the conversation.