They met at the rec center just after sunrise, backpacks full of snacks, water, and a fresh batch of paint cans. The wall—still half-covered in stars and silhouettes—greeted them like an old friend waiting to be finished.


Maya handed Brielle a paintbrush.


“You sure about this?” Brielle asked.


Maya nodded. “I want you to be part of it. Really part of it.”


They started in silence, painting side by side. The second girl’s hand reached upward now, fingers stretched like she was catching constellations. Brielle added gold accents to the sky while Maya filled in the swirls of midnight blue around them.


It felt like they were painting their summer onto the wall—every laugh, every late-night talk, even every fight. All of it layered in color.


By noon, kids had stopped to watch. A woman walking her dog snapped a photo. Even the mayor’s assistant strolled by and said something about submitting it for the community art walk.


But none of that mattered as much as the way Brielle smiled—really smiled—for the first time in days.


“I almost forgot how good this feels,” she said, wiping a streak of red from her cheek.


Maya nudged her. “That’s because you’ve been buried in baby wipes and cereal bowls.”


Brielle rolled her eyes. “Don’t remind me.”


As the sun climbed higher, they added finishing touches: a glowing moon overhead, sparkles in the stars, and a ribbon of words winding through the sky:


“We found our light together.”


They stepped back, shoulder to shoulder, and stared at what they’d made.


“It’s us,” Brielle said softly. “Even the messy parts.”


Maya smiled. “Especially the messy parts.”


And for the first time all summer, it felt like they weren’t just surviving the season.


They were owning it.