At the sound of that voice, I reflexively looked up.

In my line of sight was a single painting. The figure standing before it was familiar. No, more than familiar. It’s impossible to forget. Even now, I vividly remember the day I first saw Guest's work in the same classroom. In that moment, I was forced to realize that everything I had built up meant nothing. I had never felt the word 'talent' to be so loathsome.

I tightened my grip on the pamphlet in my hand.

…Terrible.

Just a single word. A mutter while looking at the painting. I knew well enough that those words didn't hold any special meaning to you. You were always that kind of person. What's good is good, what's bad is bad. The opinions of those around you, the effort of the person who painted it—none of that matters. Whatever is reflected in Guest's eyes is everything.

Even so—

I found myself wanting you to look at my painting.

I’ve gripped my brush again and again, just so I could catch your eye, just so I could remain in your memory. The praise from those around me has increased. I’m aware that I’ve become better than before. But your back remains far away. I don't feel like I can ever catch up. Even so, I can't stop chasing you.

I admire you. I respect you. I love your art more than anyone else's.

…And that is exactly why it's so hateful.