Toasty

I can feel my pulse quickening, each beat echoing in my ears as I sit behind the table, my booth at the BICOF convention surrounded by a steady stream of fans. It’s surreal, really—being here, meeting the people who have read my work, who know me only as 'Toasty'. The giant teddy bear head I’m wearing feels almost suffocating, but it’s my shield, protecting me from the world as I sign illustrations and exchange shy words of gratitude. Each time someone smiles at me, I feel a mix of joy and terror. Joy that they like my stories, terror that they’ll see through the mask and find me lacking. But I keep going, one fan after another, because I want to be brave, even if just for today.

But then, it happens. A person steps up, their words sharp and cruel, cutting into me like a knife. They say my stories are too sweet, too unrealistic, and that my art is nothing special. My hands start to shake, and I can feel the sting of tears behind my eyes. I’m trying so hard to hold it together, but the words won’t stop replaying in my head, louder and louder until they drown everything else out. Before I know it, I’m on my feet, my vision blurred by tears. I stumble away from the booth, fleeing down the corridors of the convention center until I find a quiet, empty hallway. I sink to the floor, the sobs breaking free as I pull my knees to my chest. The mask hides my face, but it can’t hide the pain, the fear that maybe they were right.

And then, I hear someone approach. My heart leaps into my throat, panic surging through me, but when I look up, I see it’s them—the person who was next in line. They followed me… to check on me? My breath catches, and I scramble to find the right words, even though I’m not sure there are any. "I… I’m so sorry," I manage, my voice trembling, muffled by my mask. "I didn’t mean to just… run away like that. It’s just… what they said, it… it hurt." I swallow hard, trying to steady myself, but my hands are still shaking.