Take 17. 

I smudged my mascara. 

I’d been crying intermittently all morning for several reasons. But this time, my voice wavered on the word “inheritance,” and then it broke. 

 

“This piece is deeply personal,” I said into the screen. “And it’s something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.”

I paused — not for ethical reasons. The ring light was doing its job. My skin looked flawless. 

I’d gotten the email yesterday. The art department had accepted my collage for its yearly student exhibition and had asked me for a short video about the process. My work was the centerpiece — a meditation on family and memory told through fragments of photographs and handwritten notes that I’d compiled. 

“It’s not just about me,” the video began as I watched it back without sound afterward. “It’s about all of us.” The tears, the smudged eyeliner. I looked thoughtful. Vulnerable. Overwhelmed with gratitude and insight. 

In the dim light of my dorm, I pulled up Kiersten’s art account. 

I knew her work immediately. Pale paper cutouts framed with handwritten sentences threaded through the gaps. She only had a couple hundred followers, which was not that impressive for an art student our age. I’d saved so many of her videos — though I had never actually followed her — that my phone had begun to recommend similar videos whenever I switched to my art account. Mostly, though, the videos were Kiersten’s. 

I found our university in her bio. Same art department, but a different year. We’d never spoken before or shared a class. The pieces I liked from her were the ones she posted online and made at home. She’d mentioned once keeping them separate from her coursework. I thought that was a waste; some of them could have really gotten her an A. 

At first, I admired her techniques. Later, the way she edited her videos, the artwork behind her desk. In her videos, she talked about her family. She should post more, I found myself thinking. 

She’d inspired me to post about my own work. The video had gained minor attention, but no one had asked about the art. I deleted the post.

When the exhibition was announced, I knew I had to do something special. When I’d submitted my piece, a professor had asked me why I’d cut out the faces in the photographs. 

I considered the question for a moment. “Because it shows a break in memory.”

What had I taken from her but inspiration? Sure, the style was similar: the muted colors, the fragments, the fonts.

My professor had called it original. Brilliant. My professor had an MFA. Kiersten didn’t. 

But as I watched my acceptance video again, I considered crediting her. Then I imagined the art department having to amend the display before the exhibition, and realized that it seemed unfair to ask everyone to go through so much trouble over a minor influence. 

My finger hovered over the button. 

Post. 

___

This is incredible. 

I’ve never seen anything like it. 

Can you teach me?

Okay, but where is the sweater from? 

Makeup tutorial? 

I began replying to comments (the sweater is from Alo, thank you!) as my professor moved onto the next lecture slide. 

Another comment, posted two seconds ago. 

The handwritten passage is from my grandmother’s letter. I posted the original piece in March. It was from Kiersten. My heartbeat pounded as I clicked on the replies. 

Artists can have similar styles. 

Stop comparing. 

Someone’s jealous. 

Did you even watch the video? I hearted the comment. 

By the end of class, I had more followers than Kiersten. By dinner, people were asking me to teach them, too. 

Giving out advice required some thought. Later that night, I set up the ring light at my desk.

“Finding your voice takes time,” I said. “You have to stop worrying what everyone else is doing, and you have to be honest with yourself.”

I made another video. Then another. I explained the use of negative space in relation to the intimacy of handwriting, the tension between what I remember and what I chose to leave out. There was always another aspect of myself to examine — a forgotten detail, a realization — and people were remarkably willing to watch it. 

The more emotional I sounded, the more people praised me for being honest. The more self-deprecating I seemed, the more people urged me to be kind to myself. Kiersten sometimes spent weeks on a piece, but once I understood what people liked about her work, I could make three in an afternoon. Her account was public. She’d even posted tutorials. What did she expect?

____

“Nikki,” my professor said in class the next day. “Thoughts?”

On the screen was a painting we’d been discussing for the past 20 minutes. I hadn’t been listening — I’d been scrolling when I came across one of Kiersten’s videos. She’d used thread in the piece this time, and I’d been wondering if I should use it, too. 

My professor wanted to know whether we believed an artist’s intentions should determine what their art means. 

I nodded, hoping participation counted toward our final. I glanced at my notes. 

“I think people bring their own experiences to it,” I said. “You can’t expect everyone to see the same thing.”

My professor leaned against the desk. “But what does it mean to have ownership over something?”

I considered this. He’d asked me to share my perspective, and now it seemed like there had to be a correct answer. 

“I think, eventually, we all learn that everything is a copy of another thing. What makes it yours is what you bring to it.”

It was a repetition of something I’d said in one of my videos, and a girl nodded beside me. 

“But how do you know the difference?”

A girl in the front row raised her hand. He called on her, and I nodded along with her answer. 

In my dorm later, I searched for the exhibition along with my name online. Before I could even click on the original link, an AI summary popped up first. 

You may be referring to the viral video, where Nikki Hallador’s collage combines family photographs and handwritten text to explore memory and family. 

There it was, clean and precise, written by something with no reason to lie: My art was now a fact someone else could cite. Did it even matter anymore where the original idea had come from? People had wanted an original voice, someone to look up to, and here I was. I was helping people, just like that girl and her sister. And if Kiersten was never going to do anything real with it, why shouldn’t I? 

I searched for Kiersten’s name and eventually found her profile. Her latest post was a couple days ago, and the top comment: Wow, someone has been watching Nikki Hallador’s tutorials. She hadn’t replied. 

For a moment, I felt a flash of guilt. But I hadn’t written the summary; I hadn’t written the comment. 

Satisfied, I closed the tab. 

____

The bathroom was empty two days later as I exited the stall and began to wash my hands, humming to myself quietly. I had six minutes until my next class. 

The bathroom door opened. 

I recognized her instantly. Kiersten. It was strange to see her in real life. 

My heart dropped. I continued washing my hands and said nothing. 

She stopped a few sinks down and turned her body slightly toward mine. I kept my eyes on my hands. 

Until, finally — “You watch my videos.” Her voice was quiet. I’d heard it before, but never without music playing in the background. 

I turned off the faucet and met her gaze in the mirror. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

She waited. 

I could tell her. How often I checked her account. How often I paused to study the arrangements and copy her sentences into my own notes. Apologize, thank her, tell her how much she’d inspired me. I could. Right here. Right now. Maybe it would even help my career, starting off on the right foot. People liked artists who supported other artists. 

“The sentence in your collage,” she said. “That was from my grandmother’s letter. Why didn’t you make something of your own?”

I said I’d written the lines myself in the follow-up video. It had made the whole thing seem more fitting, more personal, and I’d meticulously formatted each letter, adjusting each page to the exact dimensions. 

“You said you wrote it,” Kiersten said. I grabbed a paper towel. “You could’ve credited me.”

I dried my hands. My face felt hot. There was still paint stuck beneath my fingernails. It wouldn’t come off no matter how much I picked at it. Kiersten waited. 

“Maybe you should have posted more,” I said, and walked out, letting the door close behind me.