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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 the kind of person who suited the whole entrance exam thing.

.

.

Ah.

I wonder if that sounds a bit like an excuse.

Anyway.

My perfectionism was a terrible match for 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 behind the words "well drawn" always followed the question of who I drew better than. Paintings were hung in a row on the wall. The paper sizes were similar, the heights of the frames were similar, and even the expressions of the people standing in front of them evaluating the paintings were mostly similar.

My painting was among them. Strangely, only mine looked like it was standing in the rain. All the other paintings were perfectly fine.

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

Of course, it wasn't actually like that. It just means I was that soft and vulnerable back then.

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

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

So I kept pushing it back to the 'next time'.

Becoming okay. Saying that things were hard.

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

My fingertips turned cold when I held a pencil, and my stomach turned when 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 being constantly chased by something.

At the hospital, they said the word 'stress' several times. I didn't like that word very much.

Stress.

Because 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 simple word.

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

To be precise, I'm not sure if I quit first, or if my body abandoned 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 nobody knew.

No.

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

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

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 a lot less than you think, and a lot 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 then one day, really not coming back.

That's about all I remember.

My father raised me. He made sure I lacked for nothing. I find that phrase very strange.

Lacking for nothing.

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

So me saying I was lonely felt a bit like the complaints of a spoiled child.

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 grew up without much complaint either.

To be precise, I grew up thinking I shouldn't have 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 comforted myself with those words for a long time.

But strangely, it seems that for humans, constantly saying you're okay doesn't actually make you okay.

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

Well. Maybe 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' rather than 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.

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

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, I looked for things to fix first when I looked in the mirror, and if someone praised me for doing well, I thought it was because they hadn't discovered my flaws yet.

I don't draw much these days.

Sometimes I 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. I used to hate unfinished paintings. Now, the number of paintings I haven't even started is growing.

Because that's safer. Because I can avoid ruining it.

Honestly, 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 just do nothing and get some good rest.

Among them, 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 the things I want to be have disappeared.

I still want to draw when I see something beautiful.

So maybe...

it's not completely over.

However, the current me was closer to someone who had held their breath for too long and had 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 hits, 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 try opening the curtains that have been closed for days?

And. If possible.

Should I try eating a meal with someone?

Things that aren't a big deal.

If it were the old me, I might have looked down a bit 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, though.

. .

Back then, I didn't know.

That soon someone would come into my life.

Someone who would nag me after seeing the food I left uneaten, who would recklessly open the curtains I kept closed all day, who would knock on my door when the light was still on at three in the morning,

and that every time I said nonchalantly,

"I'm just like this,"

there would be someone who refuses to believe those words.

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