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I graduated from high school not long ago.

The reason I gave up on going to college was quite damp, yet extremely realistic. I wasn't someone who suited the whole 'entrance exam' thing very well.

.

.

Ah.

I wonder if saying it like this sounds like an excuse.

Anyway.

My perfectionism was a terrible match for entrance exams, where you have to chew and swallow failure and frustration over and over again.

And of all things, what I chose was art.

Despite having no right answer, it was graded every day, and the words 'you drew well' were always followed by 'better than whom.' Drawings were hung in a row on the wall. The sizes of the paper were similar, the heights of the frames were similar, and even the expressions of the people standing in front of them evaluating the drawings were mostly similar.

My drawing was among them. Strangely, only mine looked like it was being hit by rain. All the other drawings were perfectly fine.

But only mine was soaking wet, as if the paint were dripping down.

Of course, I don't mean it was literally like that. It means I was that fragile back then.

At first, I thought I just needed to do a little better.

I thought I just had to draw the next picture better, be less nervous for the next exam, and be a little less hurt by the next evaluation.

So I kept pushing it to the next time.

Becoming okay. Saying that it's hard.

From a certain point, sitting in front of a drawing became harder than actually drawing.

My fingertips turned cold when I held a pencil, and my stomach turned if I looked at a blank sheet of paper for too long.

I got indigestion when I ate, and my heart raced when I slept. Even on days when I did nothing, my body was as tired as someone constantly being chased by something.

The hospital said it was 'stress' multiple times. I didn't like that word very much.

Stress.

It's such a convenient word. It took years for a person to slowly break down, but they could shorten all of that into one word.

In the end, I quit with a few applications left.

To be precise, I don't know if I quit first, or if my body discarded me first.

I received a bouquet on graduation day. I took a few photos too. I looked quite alright in the photos. Humans are truly strange.

Even if you haven't been able to eat properly for days and were curled up in pain every night, you can smile when a camera is pointed at your face.

Maybe that's why no one knew.

No.

Even if they knew, would anything have changed? Our house was always that kind of place.

I rarely had to give anything up because of a lack of money.

My academy fees were never late, and I could buy most things if I said I needed them.

I had my own room, the heating worked well in the winter, and there was always food in the fridge.

So I grew up quite well-off. At least, looking only at the numbers on paper.

However, strangely, there were no people in our house. My mother left home after falling in love with someone else. I don't know exactly when it started.

Children know less than you think, and know more than you think.

The change in perfume. Going out to the balcony often to take calls. Not eating dinner at home starting from a certain day.

And one day, really not coming back.

I only remember that much.

My father raised me. He made sure I lacked nothing. I think that phrase is very strange.

'Lacking nothing.'

Since there was food, clothes, and money, it was probably true.

So me saying I was lonely felt like the complaints of someone who had it too easy.

It was also ambiguous to say I wasn't loved.

Money came in on my birthdays, and I was told I could buy what I wanted if my grades went up.

My father didn't hate me. He probably loved me. It's just that neither of us really knew how to do that. So in our house, love mostly came via bank transfer.

I also grew up without much complaint.

To be precise, I grew up thinking I shouldn't have any complaints. Because there are many people in the world who have it harder than me.

I have money. I have a house. It's true.

I soothed myself with those words for a long time.

But strangely, it seems that humans don't actually become okay just because they keep saying they are.

After graduation, the days became very long. When I opened my eyes in the morning, there was nothing to do. To be precise, there was nothing I could do.

My friends talked about college.

About joining the freshman group chat, how to plan their timetables, who they were going to see at the festival.

I smiled appropriately while listening to those stories. If you ask if I'm jealous.

Well. A little.

But if you ask if I'll do the entrance exams again, the answer is set.

No. I won't.

Part of the reason I say 'I won't' instead of 'I can't' is because it hurts my pride a little less.

Everyone said you have to go to college to properly enjoy your youth.

That you're only twenty once, and there are many things you can't do unless you're a college student. Every time I hear that, it's a bit funny.

I don't even know if I'm qualified to enjoy something like youth in the first place. Turning twenty didn't suddenly make me a new person.

I received my diploma, but I was still the same me from last year, my stomach hurt in the morning, when I looked in the mirror, I looked for things to fix first, and when someone complimented me, I thought it was because they hadn't discovered my flaws yet.

Lately, I don't even draw much.

I sometimes sit at my desk and try to hold a pencil, but after drawing one line, I become afraid of the next one.

Because I feel like I'll ruin it.

In the end, I close it, leaving only one small line in the corner of the white paper. In the past, I hated unfinished drawings. Now, the number of drawings I haven't even started is growing.

Because that's safer. Because I won't ruin it.

To be honest, I don't know what I should do right now.

Some people told me to go on a trip, some told me to try exercising, and some told me to do nothing and just rest well.

The last one was the hardest.

When I'm doing nothing, someone inside my head keeps asking.

. .

So, what are you going to become now?

Every time that happens, I can't answer. It's not that I don't have things I want to be anymore.

I still want to draw when I see something beautiful.

So maybe...

It's not completely over.

But the current me is closer to someone who held their breath for too long and needs to learn how to breathe all over again. But I don't know how to do that alone either.

It's not like someone teaches you.

Waking up in the morning and eating, opening the curtains when the sunlight comes in, resting when my body hurts, thinking I did well when I actually did something well.

Things that other people do without a second thought are strangely difficult for me lately. So these days, instead of a grand future, I think about very small things.

Should I try to eat at least one proper meal tomorrow? Should I organize the pile of medicine envelopes? Should I open the curtains that have been closed for days?

And. If possible.

Should I try eating a meal with someone?

Small things.

If it were the old me, I might have looked down on someone who called these things 'goals.'

But now I know.

That a person starting to live again begins with things much more trivial than one might think.

I don't know if I can start that yet, but.

. .

I didn't know back then.

That someone would soon enter my life.

Someone who would nag me after seeing the food I left uneaten, who would arbitrarily open the curtains I kept closed all day, who would knock on my door where the light stayed on until three in the morning,

And every time I said nonchalantly,

"I'm just like this,"

There would be someone who refuses to believe those words.

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