The school smelled like pencil shavings and nervous sweat.
Danny stood in the front office of Oak Hollow Middle School wearing a visitor sticker that said "DANNY RUIZ – GUEST SPEAKER?" and holding a tote bag full of stickers, granola bars, and one paperback copy of How to Tell a Story Without Crying (Much).
He was sweating through his shirt.
A lot.
Eliot, the teacher who'd emailed him, greeted him with a calm handshake and zero judgment.
"You made it," Eliot said, smiling. "That already makes you cooler than half our field trip chaperones."
"I almost turned around in the parking lot," Danny admitted.
"We all almost turn around," Eliot said. "That's what makes walking in so badass."
The classroom was bright, cluttered, full of half-finished science posters and sarcastic motivational signs like:
> "TRY YOUR BEST. OR DON'T. I'M NOT YOUR MOM."
The kids shuffled in slowly, half-aware, fully skeptical.
Danny stood at the front like a man about to bomb a middle school talent show.
Eliot introduced him:
> "This is Mr. Ruiz. He makes videos. He writes things. He also fell off a scooter and survived."
Polite laughter.
One kid whispered, "Wait, that's him?"
Danny cleared his throat.
"Hey. So. I'm Danny. I've done a lot of weird jobs. I've failed at most of them. I once got fired for launching a burrito into a trampoline. That is... not a metaphor."
They laughed.
Real laughter.
Danny exhaled.
He told them about his show. His screwups. His landlady. The angry cats. The comments section. He told the truth—not the filtered version, just the him version.
Then came Q&A.
First question: "How much money do you make?"
Second: "Do you have a girlfriend?"
Third: "Do you still fall a lot?"
"Yes," he answered. "Emotionally, at least once a week."
More laughter.
Then, from the back row, a quiet voice:
> "Did you always know what you wanted to do?"
Danny paused.
"No," he said. "And when I thought I did, I got it wrong. A lot."
"But you kept going?"
"Yeah. Not because I believed in myself. But because I believed in trying. Which... is basically the same thing, just messier."
The class went quiet.
Danny looked at Eliot.
Eliot gave a small nod.
Then a boy in a grey hoodie slowly raised his hand.
It was James.
After class, James stayed behind.
He didn't say much.
Just walked up and said, "Thanks for not being perfect."
Danny smiled. "Thanks for not asking me to be."
James handed him a drawing.
Crayon. Sloppy. Kind of brilliant.
It was Danny—falling off a scooter, burrito midair—but smiling. Underneath it said:
> "Still Trying."
Danny felt his throat tighten.
He knelt down. "You ever want to write together, you let me know."
James nodded. "I got stories."
"I bet you do."
Back in the parking lot, Eliot shook his hand again. "You probably just changed a kid's life."
Danny shrugged. "He kind of changed mine first."
He opened the car door.
Then turned back.
"Hey, Eliot?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for not deleting that email before you hit send."
Eliot smiled. "Thanks for reading it."
That night, back home, Danny pinned the drawing to his wall.
Right above his desk.
Right next to a sticky note that just said:
Keep going.
He opened his laptop.
Typed:
> INT. CLASSROOM – DAY
A kid hands a man a version of himself he didn't know he needed.
It's clumsy. It's bright. It's real.
The man doesn't cry.
But almost.
He sat back.
Smiled.
Then whispered to the empty room:
"I'm still trying."