Sofia leaned against the old oak tree in the park, her journal open on her lap. It was one of those rare, still moments where the questions in her head quieted just enough to let her write. Today, though, the question she couldn’t shake was this: **Am I truly myself, or just a reflection of everyone I’ve met?**

The thought had started with a comment from her best friend, Liam. They’d been talking about their habits—how Sofia always tucked her hair behind her ear when nervous.

“You got that from your mom,” Liam had said casually.

“No, I didn’t,” Sofia had replied, but the certainty in her voice faltered.

Now, as the sun dappled through the leaves above her, Sofia let her mind drift. She thought of her mother first, the way she hummed when cooking dinner. Sofia had started doing that recently, hadn’t she? Then there was Liam, with his quick wit and sarcastic humor—things Sofia found creeping into her own conversations. And then her college roommate, Zara, who had taught her to love green tea, something Sofia wouldn’t have touched before.

Was she pieced together from fragments of these people? Did she have anything that was truly hers?

She closed her eyes and let the memories roll in. Her mother laughing over burnt pancakes. Liam arguing passionately about a movie’s plot twist. Zara dancing in the rain one night. Each memory glimmered like a shard of colored glass.

And then, Sofia saw it: a mosaic.

The image of herself wasn’t one solid color or shape. It was made of pieces—fragments of the people she had loved, admired, and even disliked. Her mother’s practicality formed the foundation, Liam’s humor added splashes of brightness, Zara’s spontaneity sparkled like tiny stars. But something held all those pieces together, some invisible thread that was hers alone.

Maybe it was the way she combined them. Her mother’s practicality didn’t stop her from impulsively booking last-minute trips with Liam. Zara’s love of spontaneity didn’t keep her from carefully planning every detail of those trips. She wasn’t just a copy of others—she was the artist, assembling the pieces.

A gentle breeze swept through the park, and Sofia opened her eyes.

She picked up her pen and began to write:

_“We are a mosaic of the people we meet, but the design is ours. The pieces are theirs, the art is ours.”_

Sofia smiled as she closed the journal. She didn’t need to answer the question anymore. She knew who she was: a mosaic, unique and beautiful in her own way.