The Girl in the Blue Blazer

There’s this girl I see sometimes — the one who wears a thrifted blue blazer like it’s a family heirloom. Not oversized in that obvious “I’m trying” way, just… lived in. The sleeves carry wrinkles from too many bus rides and one too many nights sitting on cold steps outside clubs she never actually enters. She wears it with no rush, no approval needed, no filter check. It’s not fashion. It’s muscle memory.

I first saw her by one of my regular out of the way spots, eating a meat pie with her phone balanced on her knee, sketching something with her free hand. Not because anyone was watching, but because her head would’ve exploded if she didn’t. That’s the thing about some people — talent doesn’t sit quietly; it leaks. It spills into how they walk, talk, eat, argue, dress.

She doesn’t post her sketches online. Says she’s “still figuring them out.” Which is a lie, but the good kind. The kind artists tell themselves so they don’t have to watch strangers misunderstand what they love.

When I saw her again, she had painted the back of that same blazer — a burst of orange and white, something between graffiti and a sunrise. I asked her what it meant and she shrugged. “Felt empty. Fixed it.” That’s it. That’s talent.

People think talent is about output — how good, how polished, how many likes. But sometimes it’s just about that quiet rebellion of fixing what feels empty. Of knowing that even the clothes on your back deserve a story.

The last time I saw her, she’d cut her hair short. The blazer was gone. In its place — a white tank, gold hoops, confidence that could set off alarms. Maybe that’s the real trick: style isn’t about what you keep. It’s about what you outgrow and don’t mourn.

So yeah, I think about her sometimes. Not because of the blazer. But because she reminded me that maybe style is just the visible part of talent — that small, stubborn urge to make ordinary things say something they weren’t meant to.