June had never considered herself particularly brave.

This was a fact she would have argued fiercely at seventeen.

Back then, bravery seemed easy to define. Brave people climbed mountains, moved across countries, stood on stages, started businesses, chased impossible dreams. Brave people did things. They acted. They jumped before they were ready.

June did all of those things.

Or at least, she intended to.

What she didn't understand yet was that courage and curiosity were often mistaken for one another.

June wasn't fearless.

She was simply curious enough to keep moving.

There was a difference.

Every few weeks, she discovered something new she wanted to become.

A musician.

A writer.

A photographer.

An athlete.

A polyglot.

An artist.

The list changed constantly. The enthusiasm did not.

The beginning of every new obsession felt identical. It arrived with the same intoxicating certainty that this time would be different. This time she would commit. This time she would stay long enough to become genuinely good at it.

The fact that she had made the same promise to herself dozens of times before never seemed particularly relevant.

At seventeen, optimism was remarkably resilient.

One Thursday evening, June announced that she was going to learn digital illustration.

Three days earlier, she had known almost nothing about it. By Thursday, she had watched enough videos to convince herself that it would soon become an important part of her future.

By Saturday, she had already imagined the person she might become because of it.

The future version of June was always very talented.

The present version was usually overwhelmed.

She uploaded her first attempt online anyway.

The drawing was imperfect. The proportions were inconsistent. The lighting made very little sense. By any objective standard, it was exactly what one would expect from someone who had started learning less than a week ago.

June stared at it for several minutes before posting.

Then she immediately regretted posting it.

Then she spent the next twenty minutes checking whether anyone had seen it.

Then she became annoyed with herself for checking.

The cycle was familiar.

Most ambitions began this way.

The first response came from a friend.

The second came from another.

A handful of reactions followed throughout the evening, each one kind, encouraging, and entirely forgettable.

Then Elliot sent a message.

Not a reaction.

Not an emoji.

A message.

June opened it.

"I like this one."

That was all.

Simple.

Unremarkable.

The sort of thing anyone could have said.

Yet she found herself smiling anyway.

Perhaps because Elliot rarely sounded obligated to be supportive. Most encouragement arrived wrapped in politeness. People wanted to be kind, so they complimented effort. They praised intentions. They searched for something positive to say regardless of what they actually thought.

Elliot never seemed interested in performing kindness.

If he liked something, he said so.

If he didn't, he usually asked questions instead.

There was something strangely reassuring about that.

"You're biased," June replied.

A few moments later, another message appeared.

"I don't think so."

Then, after a pause:

"I just think you're better than you think you are."

June stared at the screen.

Not because the sentence was romantic.

It wasn't.

Not because it was particularly profound.

It wasn't that either.

The message lingered for a different reason.

People often encouraged her after she succeeded.

People congratulated results.

People celebrated achievements.

Elliot, however, seemed interested in the attempt itself.

The beginning.

The part before success.

The part before anyone knew whether something would work.

Years later, June would realize that this was the pattern she kept missing.

Whenever she started something new, Elliot appeared.

Not afterwards.

Not once it was impressive.

Not once it became real.

At the beginning.

At the uncertain part.

At the stage where failure remained the most likely outcome.

And somehow, without ever making a grand speech about belief or potential, he always managed to sound as though failure would not be the end of the story.

At seventeen, she didn't think much of it.

She simply replied, rolled her eyes at his optimism, and returned to her drawing.

Years later, she would understand why those conversations had stayed with her for so long.

Most people waited for proof before they believed in someone.

Elliot had always seemed strangely comfortable believing first.